


no sweet home

by gone_girl



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Period-Typical Racism, Racialized Violence, and his history with spot, bonus lyrical parallels, how he got the name jack kelly, jack's backstory!, mostly musical but some borrowed aspects from the movie, suicidal thought, the birth of the obsession with santa fe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gone_girl/pseuds/gone_girl
Summary: Jack Kelly grew up in a city he hated, and that hated him back. But for all he ran away, he never seemed to be able to get out of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a couple thousand words about his parents so uhh bear with me. also there's a pretty graphic description of someone choking a little kid so be mindful of that

Every hero has a mother. Every story starts with a woman who broke to give someone life, and she is not always put back together.

Jack Kelly’s story starts with Aliyah Mahmoud.

Aliyah was born in 1863 in Khartoum, the fourth child in a wealthy Christian household. Her father, a half English doctor, doted on his only daughter. Aliyah was a happy child. She loved being the baby of the family, tugging on her mother’s hair and getting her brothers to give her their sweets. Aliyah didn’t quite understand what her parents always argued about, not until later in her life when she couldn’t talk to them about it anymore.

In 1863, Ali and Najwa Mahmoud made plans to get out of Sudan and head to England, just in case. In 1867, they set those plans in action.

The journey took weeks. Aliyah, uncomfortable and unhappy, cried whenever she couldn’t sleep. Her mother hushed her and stared resentfully over her daughter’s head at her husband, who pretended not to notice.

Arab Christians are not welcome in many places, for one reason or another. England is a poor place for any young Arab woman.

To grow up in a place that hates you is harder than any brown or black person can ever explain, breaks you more than can ever be expressed. Aliyah was dark, darker than any Englishman could respect, and although her family was wealthy, she could never find many people of their class who would associate with her. She lived trapped in England, alone and bitter and withdrawn. Aliyah could not quite remember Sudan, the dusty heat, the food, the city full of people who looked and talked like she did, but she missed it. 

An unhappy teenager makes silly choices, and one day, Aliyah snuck out of church and met a boy who looked at her with desire rather than disgust.

“That’s probably a sin, doll.”

Aliyah whirled around to see a white teenage boy around her age, dressed in ratty clothes. He grinned at her. “You always sneak out of church?”

Suddenly torn between the boy who’d taken an interest in her and going home, like she’d planned, Aliyah folded her arms.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” she said, trying to hide her slight accent. It didn’t work, but the boy didn’t seem put off.

“I’m Will,” he said, offering his arm. “I’ll buy you a pastry if you tell me your name.”

Will pronounced Aliyah’s name strangely, but he led her through the streets practically strutting with her on his arm, and he was all too pleased to spend the only money in his pockets on a dessert for her, and that was more than enough for Aliyah.

Will made her feel like a lady, a princess, and she’d never met anybody like that. Aliyah was seventeen, and all she wanted was for someone to treat her like a princess. If the only person who would was a poor stranger, she’d take it.

They walked all around the city, not too close but close enough for Will’s arm to brush hers sometimes. He showed Aliyah his favorite places in the city. Aliyah had already seen all of them, but Will was so animated and cheerful that she couldn’t bring herself to tell him so, and it was hard to finally stop him to tell him that she had to go home.

Will deflated, looking genuinely disappointed that she couldn’t stay. He scuffed his shoe against the cobblestones.

“Can I see you again?” he asked, hesitantly. “You could sneak out of church next Sunday, too.”

Aliyah, struck with Will’s interest in her, could only manage a single word. “Okay.”

Will’s hand drifted over Aliyah’s, and Aliyah held her breath, her eyes fixed on his blushing face. He wound his little finger around hers, smiled, and then left her standing in front of the church.

Aliyah’s parents were terribly upset with her for skipping church, but God, she could not care, smiling and thinking about Will all the way home.

The next Sunday, true to his word, Will was waiting for her when Aliyah snuck out of church. He took off his hat in an exaggerated show of respect, making Aliyah laugh, and they set off together, Aliyah on Will’s arm.

“How was your week?” Aliyah asked him.

“I was working. I’m saving up to go to America,” Will told her, his chest puffing out slightly.

Aliyah’s father had always talked about America disparagingly, calling it full of poor people and homosexuals. For precisely this reason, Aliyah grinned at Will and told him she thought it was a great idea.

“How long have you been saving up?” 

“A long time,” Will said. “My dad’s already gone. I’m gonna go live in New York. People say it rains honey and the streets are made of gold, you know that?”

“I’ve heard it was place of sin and poverty,” Aliyah answered honestly. “But it can’t possibly be worse than England in that regard.”

Will laughed, and it was a delighted, surprised sound. Aliyah marveled at how Will could make everything sound amused and happy. Increasingly, he made  _ her  _ feel amused and happy, too.

Sundays became the best day of the week. If she couldn’t sneak out of church, Aliyah would meet Will afterwards. He never belittled her or acted like she was ugly for her big nose or dark skin or coarse hair, and Aliyah wanted to spend every possible minute with him just to soak up the sheer happiness and warmth he radiated. Will liked being with her, too; at least, he acted like he did. They started spending time with each other during the week, meeting wherever and whenever they could. Aliyah never felt alone anymore.

One Sunday, Will never showed up after church.

Stinging with disappointment and embarrassment, Aliyah went home with her family, pointedly ignoring her mother’s satisfied look.

Of course he didn’t show up. It had been weeks and weeks, he was bound to get tired of her eventually. Maybe he’d bought his ticket to America and left. Without saying goodbye.

Furious now, Aliyah stormed into her room and slammed the door behind her. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t  _ fair.  _ She’d finally found someone who made her feel bright and pretty and cheerful, and he had disappeared, just like that. Of course. Because Aliyah couldn’t have  _ anything. _

Aliyah stayed in her room all that afternoon and straight through supper, sulking. Late, though, she heard tapping against her window. Sitting straight up, she saw Will’s face through the window.

Rushing over, she flung it open, joy welling up in her chest. “Will!”

He fumbled his way through the window, landing flat on his face. “Oof. Hi, Aliyah.”

“What are you doing here?” Aliyah asked, closing the window against the cold evening air. “Where were you today?”

“Working late.” Will got to his feet. “And buying my tickets to America.”

“Oh.” Aliyah’s mood plummeted considerably. “When are you going?”

“Three weeks,” said Will, bouncing on his toes in excitement. “Catching the  _ Valiant  _ out of Brighton.”

Aliyah nodded, trying very hard to conceal her bitterness. “That’s great, Will. Really.”

Will pulled something out of his pocket to hold out to her her. “I brought them.”

“Why?” Aliyah griped as she took the papers. “I don’t-” She stopped talking as she gaped at the tickets she had in her hand.

Two of them.

One had William Sullivan written on it, and the other said Aliyah Mahmoud.

“Do you want to come with me?” Will asked her, quite unnecessarily. “There’s a life that’s worth the living, you know.”

Aliyah’s whole world expanded. She didn’t have to be trapped in England anymore. She didn’t have to keep living with her family, who, no matter what, always seemed distant and faintly mocking of their ugly dark daughter.

Who cared if she’d only known Will for a couple months? Who cared if this meant she’d probably have to marry him? She didn’t want to live and die in a place that hated her. She had finally,  _ finally  _ caught a break. A boy who liked her was a great ticket to a beautiful city where she could really dream, for the first time in her life. It was like the heavens had opened up. 

“Yes,” Aliyah said breathlessly. “Yes, I want to come with you. Yes.”

“Oh, good,” Will said, relief clearing the nervousness from his expression. “Those tickets cost so much-”

This time, he was interrupted by Aliyah’s mouth on his. Aliyah had never kissed anyone, and it seemed that Will hadn’t, either. But he kissed her back, his arms tight around her and the tickets clutched in her hands.

They were going to America.

* * *

 

Aliyah Mahmoud’s story ends with Jack Kelly.

Aliyah and Will stepped off the boat in a New York City, and were married before the day was done.

They walked through the bustling streets in Lower Manhattan, arm in arm like they always had in England. Both of them were in awe, and could not stop babbling to each other about the city and what they hoped to do there. Neither were really listening to the other, but they were happy talking all the same, and did not let go of each other even when they went to sleep in their new tenement.

Living in America, as it turned out, was difficult. Aliyah spent her days learning how to clean, learning how to cook, cleaning, and cooking, and Will was always working to pay rent. But Aliyah loved the apartment she could call her own, she loved having a family, even if it was just Will, and she loved having friends. They had neighbors, a Russian Jewish family to their right, a young German couple on their left, an old Polish man above them, and a Mexican family below. Aliyah had never had real friends before, and before long, her building was teeming with them.

Living in America was difficult. But Aliyah felt more at home in the home she made for herself in Manhattan than she ever had in England. Will, always joyful and laughing, lit up her days even when work was hard. For a long time, things were good.

The thing about some people is that their bodies are not made right to bear children. It’s no fault of their own, and no diet or medication could make it better. Some people cannot carry a child to term healthily, and if this person is a poor Arab teenager in 1881, then she doesn’t stand a chance.

A few months after arriving in New York City, Aliyah was shouting her good news from the rooftops. Nearly everyone in the building came to give her food or baby clothes or congratulations, because everyone in the building loved her. For a little while, Aliyah and Will were the happiest people in the world. And a few months after that, she was bedridden.

Aliyah’s body was simply not made right to bear children.

Will watched helplessly as his wife grew paler and sicker, her belly expanding as the child inside her leeched away her health. There was nothing either of them could do, and Aliyah’s increasingly contrived optimism did little to banish the smell of sickness hanging in the apartment like a ghost.

On Christmas Eve, Aliyah was heavily pregnant and suffering with a persistent hacking cough. Will was fretting, as he was inclined to do, and Aliyah had to reach out and wrap her hands securely around his to calm him down.

“Will, my darling. Will.” Aliyah stared steadily at him, fingers rubbing over his knuckles. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything, doll,” Will told her, and meant it.

Aliyah’s shaking fingers reached under her pillows and extracted an envelope, already stamped and addressed.

_ Doctor Ali Mahmoud. _

Aliyah had never written her parents, not once in the time since she’d left, and both Will and Aliyah knew what it meant that she was writing them now.

“Aliyah-”

“Please, Will.”

“I wasn’t gonna say no,” Will said, weakly. “Just that I love you.”

Aliyah mustered a smile. “I love you too, my darling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“If I’d never stolen you away from England. Your dad’s a doctor-” Will cut himself off, looking utterly hopeless.

“There are many things I would have changed about my life,” Aliyah said after a minute, looking thoughtful. “But Will, you didn’t steal me away. I ran. And with you, I don’t regret anything except the fact that I won’t be here to see our girl grow up.”

“You are,” Will insisted. “You’ll see.” Aliyah regarded him, and he leaned back but didn’t let go of her hand. “I still think it’s a boy, anyhow.”

“We’ll see,” Aliyah said, humoring him.

Aliyah began to bleed on a bitterly cold December night. Will ran through their building and their neighborhood, screaming for every midwife, doctor, and nurse who’d hear him, and bankrupted himself trying to save his wife.

She was dead by morning, leaving a healthy, brown skinned baby wailing behind her.

Will held his son and stared after his wife as she was carried away.

She’d been so convinced that it would be a girl that she hadn’t even bothered to come up with boys’ names. Will couldn’t bring himself to even look at the child for days, much less name it, and when he finally came back to the crib to stare down at his crying son, he could see nothing but Aliyah’s eyes.

Will named the boy Francis. It wasn’t a significant name, wasn’t the name of Will’s father or anyone important. Will refused to invest anything else in Aliyah’s child.

Francis Sullivan’s story never had a chance to start.

* * *

“Jack! It’s good to see you again!”

“Hi, Mr. Sokolof,” Francis said politely. “It’s Francis. Remember? From downstairs.”

The old man squinted at him. “Ah. Apologies,” he said after a moment. “I forget these things.”

“S’okay.” Francis stepped inside. Mr. Sokolof was old and creaky and tired, and he paid Francis a nickel sometimes to do chores for him. It was mostly simple things, and Francis was just glad at any opportunity to be away from his father.

Francis knew from a very young age that his father didn’t much like him. Not the way some of the boys down the street had fathers who didn’t like them, not beatings and screaming kind of dislike. Francis’s father seemed bothered his very existence. Sometimes his anger would fill the apartment, silent and oppressive and pressing outwards until there was no room for Francis. Food and money wasn’t for Francis, clean sheets weren’t for Francis.

“You take too much.” The most frequent refrain in the Sullivan home.

So Francis avoided his father. He did Mr. Sokolof’s chores, or played with the other boys in the street, even if the only ones who weren’t mean to him were the other brown boys who lived downstairs.

After Francis finished in Mr. Sokolof’s apartment, he went downstairs, his precious nickel clutched in his grimy fist. He could get ten whole pieces of candy, and that’s precisely what he was coming back from doing when he stepped out to see all the boys on his block kicking a ball around.

Francis stuffed his candy into his pocket and ran out, excited. “I wanna play!” he shouted.

“Nuh uh!” one of the boys called back. “This is my ball! Ain’t no coloreds allowed!”

“Well, I got candy,” Francis challenged. “You could have one if you lets me play.”

The boy paused, reconsidering. “Yeah, okay.”

They played for a while, everyone doing their best not to break the ball. It wasn’t a real ball. It was crumpled newspaper tied together with twine. Still, it was the best they had.

“Hey, Francis!”

Francis looked to see who was calling him and accidentally let the ball fly right past him. “What!”

“Why’s you colored if you dad’s white?” shouted the boy.

It was a good question. Francis had no idea why.

“I’s a lost prince. From Africa,” Francis yelled, skinny chest puffed out. “Dad ain’t my real dad. He got me ‘til I goes back and gets my kingdom.”

“You ain’t no lost prince,” the kid shot back. “You shorter’n John, and he’s only seven.” The other boys laughed, and Francis glared.

“Am so. You just see. I’ll brings my whole army.”

“I ain’t never heard of no prince ugly as you,” laughed the boy. “You brain all muddled up with dirt, just like you skin.”

“You’s stupid,” Francis retorted, knowing he’d lose this fight.

“No, you-”

“You both stupid,” someone interrupted. Francis looked up to see the Miguel, the older Mexican boy from his building, and could’ve cried with relief. “Let’s play.” The white kids usually left Francis alone when the other brown boys were with him, and Francis stayed close to him.

The question stuck in Francis’s head. Why  _ was  _ he so dark, if his father was so clearly white? Forgetting all about the promise he’d made to give the boy candy, Francis left the game and went up to his tenement. His father wasn’t home yet, so in hopes of putting him in a good mood, Francis did all the chores, even the ones his skinny little body couldn’t handle very well.

The sun dipped below the horizon and his father never came home. Francis lay in bed awake half the night, listening intently for the door, and did not hear it open.

The next morning, Francis jerked awake to hear the door burst open. Mind still clouded with sleep, Francis, terrified, rolled off the bed and crawled underneath it to hide. Boots thundered through the apartment, boots that were too shiny to belong to his father.

“He ain’t here!” a man yelled. Someone came into Francis’s room, and Francis squeezed his eyes shut. He had no idea who these people were, and fear was making his breath come fast.

“He’s got a kid!” the man in Francis’s room shouted. The whole apartment fell dead silent for a moment.

“He never said that. Check the room.”

Francis curled up, covering his head with his arms as he tried to keep his crying silent. There were two or three men stomping around his room now, and he let out a quiet sob as he heard a door slam.

“Is the kid-”

Someone grabbed Francis’s arm and yanked him out from under the bed. Francis shrieked in fear and lashed out, trying to get away.

“Hey, hey! Calm down! Calm down, hey, we’re the police,” the man said, holding Francis’s arms still. “What’s your name, boy?”

The police?

“Francis. Sullivan.”

“Do you know where your dad is?” asked the police officer.

Francis shook his head mutely.

“Okay.” The police officer let go of Francis, tentatively. “Got any nearby folks?”

Francis shook his head again, and tried to find his voice. “Where’s Dad?”

“We don’t know, Francis. But he did something real bad.”

Testimony was extracted from Francis and then he was forgotten about. With nobody watching him, Francis slept under a desk in the police station for the first night, trying to stay quiet and not bother anyone. The very next morning, though, Francis was awoken by a tall white police officer kicking him.

“What the hell is this?” the man demanded. “I knew we had a cockroach infestation, but they ain’t supposed to be so big.”

Francis stared at the police officer, frozen and scared.

“Jesus Christ.” The police officer hauled Francis out from under the desk. Francis had been dragged around enough in the past few days to know that the best thing was to go along with it as best he could. “Sir,” the officer called, knocking on a door with lettering Francis couldn’t read. “Sir!” “What, Blythe?” Another white police officer opened the door, his eyes immediately zeroing in on Francis. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied Blythe, angrily. “It’s one thing to have street rats in and out of here, but it’s another to have some little colored bastard walk in like he owns the damn place. What is this, anyway? They let Turks come here now?”

“They’ve been letting Turks come here, you idiot. Put that monkey out and go back to work.”

Blythe yanked Francis around so hard that it hurt his shoulder. Crying out, Francis struggled to break free of the officer’s hold, but the man simply snarled and hit him. Francis spat on his captor, which only served to make him angrier. Once outside of the police station, the officer shoved Francis to the ground, kicked him in the face, and headed back inside.

Francis slowly got to his feet and wandered Lower Manhattan almost like his parents had, ten years earlier. He had no idea where home was, and didn’t think he’d be able to go back if he did. He wondered if they’d ever find his father.

Francis didn’t know what his father had done, but he wouldn’t mind if he never saw him again.

Francis walked all day, hoping that he’d see one of the Mexican boys who lived downstairs, or even one of the rude white ones who lived on his street. He didn’t, but to his great relief, he stumbled into his neighborhood in the late spring afternoon. His feet carried him to his building, feeling the steady drip of a still-bleeding head wound.

“Jack! It’s good to see you again!” Mr. Sokolof always said the same thing, except this time Francis was too tired to correct him.

“Hi, Mr. Sokolof,” Francis said.

“Jack, are you all right?” the old man asked, concerned. “Come in, my boy, you look terrible.” Francis, nearly collapsing with relief, stepped inside.

Mr. Sokolof very clearly completely believed Francis to be some other boy named Jack, and Francis let him. This was a roof over his head, and someone who would dab the blood away from his brown skin. That was enough for Francis.

Perhaps if Aliyah Mahmoud had lived, she could’ve helped her son exist as a little brown boy in New York City. Perhaps Will Sullivan might never have killed a man, or had to be hunted down, or thrown in jail by police officers. Perhaps the Sullivan half breed boy might have been more than an annoying footnote to everyone in his life.

Or perhaps not. Francis Sullivan never really had a chance.

That’s why this story is about Jack Kelly. Nobody cares about little brown boys that get kicked around until they don’t exist. People like stories about revolutionaries, about heroes, and for all of his flaws, Jack Kelly is a hero.

But before we get to the hero, let us return to the bones that broke to make him.

Mr. Sokolof did not ever say the name Francis in all the time that Francis stayed with him, but that was fine. Francis did not particularly want to remember himself, either. Mr. Sokolof did remember his years in Poland and Serbia with crystal clarity, and he liked to reminisce.

“Jack, my boy,” he would boom over dinner. “I remember when you were only a babe! Your mother would carry you through the marketplace every day.” Francis would only have to cock his head and look curious for Mr. Sokolof to launch into a colorful story about his travels and experiences, and Francis loved to listen.

Jack, whoever he was, had liked to draw. On the second day, after their evening meal, Mr. Sokolof gave Francis a paper and pencil and told him that he hadn’t looked himself lately.

“You always loved drawing,” Mr. Sokolof said.

“I did?” Francis asked, curiously.

“Of course, my boy,” Mr. Sokolof said, surprised. “Don’t you remember?” And the old man retrieved a few ancient pieces of paper from his bedroom with beautifully detailed scenes sketched onto them. “I can’t remember when you made these, but I’ve kept them.”

“They’s real good.” Francis was enthralled as he ran fingers over the charcoal lines, careful not to smudge them.

“Yes, they are,” Mr. Sokolof said, laughing. He stopped, abruptly, looking distressed. “She always used to love it when you drew for her.”

Francis didn’t know who “she” was, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Gathering up the old sketches, he pressed them to Mr. Sokolof’s chest. “I thinks it’s time to sleep,” he said softly. “Come on, Mr. Sokolof.” Gently, Francis led Mr. Sokolof to his bedroom, the old man clutching the drawings and looking confused and upset.

“Kelly,” Mr. Sokolof blurted out as he lay on his bed, the papers crinkling in his grip. “She- she-”

“Yeah,” Francis said, putting the drawings on the bedside table. “She was real pretty, huh?”

“She is,” Mr. Sokolof said, quietly.

“Good night, Mr. Sokolof.”

“Good night, Jack.”

Francis sat up that night and many nights afterward, drawing very carefully. He was not a naturally talented artist, and it took him hours to produce anything he was halfway satisfied with. But he worked hard at it, because it made Mr. Sokolof smile, and he found that making progress and making beautiful things made him feel good.

Francis felt good for nearly a whole three weeks.

It was a fateful morning that he left the tenement to buy food with Mr. Sokolof’s money when he ran into his father on the stairs.

“Francis? Jesus, where you been?” his father asked, wild eyed and smelling like he’d been dragged through hell.

“Where  _ you  _ been?” asked Francis, utterly baffled. “What’d you do? The bulls is lookin’ for you!”

“I didn’t do anything. I defended myself,” his father shouted, gesturing wildly. “Everyone- no right to-”

Francis realized that his father was drunk.

“Dad-”

“You gonna tell ‘em I’m here, eh?” his father demanded. “Colored piece of shit. God. Shoulda threw you out the window when you killed Aliyah.”

Francis had no idea who Aliyah was. “I ain’t killed no one,” Francis said, trying to make his way back up the stairs. “Dad, why’s you been gone so long?”

“Fuck you.”

These were the last words spoken to Francis by his father. Francis turned tail and ran, but he was not fast enough. His father’s hands shot out and yanked Francis back down, unbalancing them both. They tumbled down the narrow staircase together, and Francis leapt to his feet and took off running.

He made it to the front door of the building, where police officers were pouring in, finally having tracked down William Sullivan.

Francis was swept away. He never saw Mr. Sokolof again, never drew for him again or shuffled him away to bed after dinner. He never saw the boys he played with again, and he never saw his father again.

Francis was swallowed up by the Refuge, and never emerged again.

In the Refuge, Francis was unremarkable. There were hundreds of skinny bruised up boys, black and white and brown all mixed together. Francis was not the oldest or the youngest. He roomed with nearly thirty other boys, and slept with two sharing his bed. One of them was white, which surprised Francis. Many of the white kids at the Refuge didn't seem to care about living with black and brown ones, and Francis was so little prepared for this that he had to ask an older boy about it.

“Why’s they sleepin’ with colored kids?” Francis asked on his first night to a black boy in the bed next to his.

The boy shrugged. “No one care,” he said. He had an accent. “Few of the bigger ones do, I guess, but no one like them.”

“Oh.” Francis considered that. “This place’s weird.”

“You get used to it,” the boy said.

“What's your name?”

“Michael,” said the boy, lying down to sleep. “You?”

“Francis.”

“Kay,” Michael said, his eyes already shut. Francis stayed up, watching boys scurry around the room to get ready for bed and strongly reminded of a rat nest. Finding a pencil in his pocket, Francis crawled over his two bed mates carefully and pressed himself comfortably against the wall. On the gray old paint Francis began sketching the scene. For every present boy, he drew a rat underfoot. He did not have time to finish before a guard barged in and called lights out.

Too tired to protest, Francis blew out the candle and went to sleep.

Days blurred together in a dreadful monotony, each day marked only by how bad the hunger pangs were or how many new bruises and cuts he gained from the guards and older boys. Francis kept largely to himself. He wasn't a fool, knew that some boys here had had it far worse than he did. Some boys here were crippled or sick, and some boys seemed to be personal enemies of Snyder. Some simply couldn't take the conditions.

He’d been at the Refuge for five weeks- Mr. Sokolof was dead, although Francis would never learn this- when he learned the word suicide.

The word floated through the hallways like a ghost, laced their muddy breakfasts like poison. Francis was scratching a cat’s face into the table, hoping it might scare away the rats. There was a vaguely familiar mood in the dining hall, that heavy muggy feeling of someone else’s anger or pain. Francis’s first instinct was to leave, but of course he couldn't. He glimpsed one of the bigger boys talking low and fast to his friends, his eyes wide and excited.

“He  _ suicided.  _ Tossed hisself out the window, I seen it!”

“Everyone knows that,” said his companion dismissively.

“No, no, listen. His brothers was comin’ to take him  _ out _ . He was waitin’ by the window, lock all broke and ready to go, and then the guard came by’n told him to get to bed or he’d soak him, and he stared real serious for a second and opened the window and  _ jumped.” _

The boy’s name was Luke Mason. He was fifteen and from Queens. Few people in the Refuge remembered these trivial facts after a couple weeks, only that he was the boy who’d flung himself out the window rather than wait another hour to get out.

Suicide. Francis turned the word over in his head, and felt his hunger pangs like a knife in his guts. Suddenly sure he’d be sick if he ate another bite, Francis shoved away his measly portion of food and ducked under the table. It was dusty, and people kept kicking him, but it was dark and small and safe. Francis put his head between his knees, trying to breathe deeply to stave off the abrupt nausea. He stayed there until breakfast was over, taking rattling breaths and hearing his father’s voice.

“ _ Shoulda threw you out the window when you killed Aliyah.” _

That was the first time Francis thought about killing himself, but certainly not the last.

Francis rotted away in the Refuge, quietly. He drew on the walls and took up as little space as he could, and talked to nobody. He never had been a loud boy, but he missed yelling and laughing. The Refuge ran like a river through Francis, hollowing him out. Francis had always known how to compress himself, how to tuck himself away and be unnoticed (to be a brown child necessitates it) but he had always had his own bed to curl up in at the end of the day.

Months passed, and Francis became a veteran of the Refuge. Boys who’d been sentenced there were usually out within a year, and ones who were there because they had no place else to go either escaped or were taken out by some distant relative. Francis had no distant relatives.

Francis turned eleven. Nobody knew this, including him. Two more boys had died. Francis felt sick about it, although he always felt sick about something and it was hard to tell lately what was making him throw up.

The Refuge, when you are stuck there indefinitely, is hard to imagine ever getting out of. Francis really did think he would die there, just like the boys he couldn't remember the names of. He hated the cramped quarters that were either too hot or freezing cold, the guards that all seemed to be older white men with a grudge, the beggar’s portions of tasteless sludge they called food, the other boys who would push each other around and laugh as if they were happy in the Refuge. God, Francis hated it, more strongly than he'd ever felt about anything.

He might have died just from all the hate that knotted his insides if, the summer after he turned twelve, he hadn't noticed that there was no lock or bars on the window of Snyder’s office.

After Luke Mason’s suicide, bars had been installed on all the windows of the Refuge. Suicide wasn't all that uncommon an occurrence, so Snyder had finally dished out the few dollars it took to put iron bars on all the windows (mostly, Francis had heard, to avoid investigation). Even a broken lock wasn't a way out anymore.

But delivering a plate of food to the warden, Francis’s eyes slid to the wide window. It was ten feet off the ground, but there was only a latch on the sill, and then it was a clear shot back to the world.

Naively confident that this was the way out, Francis never stopped to consider that he was not the first to come up with this plan. Although he'd been forced to be silent his whole life, Francis was not a patient boy. The next time he was sent to the kitchen to get Snyder his dinner, Francis stole an extra hairpin right out of the pocket of one of the cooks. Francis took the plate and set off, convinced he could feel the pin burn in his pocket. Snyder did not look twice at Francis, and he left rubbing his sweating palms on his worn pants.

Francis was jittery all evening. He sat quietly on his bed, drawing on the walls and listening to the other boys play.

He was getting out. He could hardly believe it. He had no idea where he’d go or what he’d do, but these questions were far from mind. Francis was tired of being quiet to survive.

After the guards turned out the lights, Francis crept out of his bed, careful not to wake the other boys. Freedom was only a few floors away, and Francis could feel his whole body thrumming with anticipation as he sprinted down the stairs.

He rounded the corner on the final flight of stairs and ran directly into a guard.

Too quick for the older man, Francis kicked the man straight in the crotch and then headbutted him. The guard toppled backward down the stairs. Heart pounding, Francis ran past him as the man screamed for backup. He was out of time.

Francis heard the building beginning to stir as he skidded to a stop in front of Snyder’s office. Hands shaking, he fished the stolen hairpin out of his pocket and stuffed it into the lock, trying to hurry and making the process slower. He heard the thundering of guards, coming to drag him away.

The lock clicked open, and Francis made an aborted lunge into the room as a hand closed around his arm.

Panic suddenly flooding him, Francis shrieked as Snyder dragged him back. Francis, desperately, swung his head around and bit the hand holding him, and Snyder loosened his grip. Francis launched himself forward, and managed to throw the window open before the guard recovered. Scrabbling to climb out the window, Francis was jerked back by Snyder, and he felt the man’s hands tighten around his neck.

Francis struggled, but it did him no good. “Lucky I hadn’t left yet, huh?” Snyder snarled, slamming Francis’s head against the floor and making him dizzy. “Fucking rat. You should all be exterminated.”

The pin was still in Francis’s hand. He brought it up, spots obstructing his vision, and jammed it into Snyder’s wrist. Howling with pain, Snyder let go of Francis and fell back. Nearly blinded by tears and the choking, Francis hauled himself off the floor and out the window.

The fall nearly knocked him out. Francis lay on the ground for a solid few seconds, stunned, before he struggled to his feet and tried to run. His legs would not support him, and Francis fell several times before stabilizing enough to run away from the Refuge.

It was nearly an hour before Francis had staggered far enough away that he felt safe. Collapsing in an alley, Francis stared up at the narrow strip of sky that was visible between the buildings and felt sweat run down his neck in the muggy summer air. He could see the moon, fading behind a cloud. He imagined it as big and bright and clear. Then he could no longer contain himself and curled in on himself, breaking into silent sobs. Quiet tears slid down his cheeks, and Francis squeezed his eyes shut, still shaking and scared. He did not feel free.

* * *

 

“Hey. Is you dead?”

“I think he’s dead. Lookit his neck. It’s all broken. Someone killed ‘im.”

“No, stupid, he ain’t dead. He’s breathin’.”

“Well, he ain’t wakin’ up. What if he’s dead?”

Forcing his eyes open, he was greeted with the unpleasant sight of a group of white boys standing around him. He sat up against the wall behind him, shading his eyes against the sunlight.

“See? I told you,” said one, looking satisfied. “He’s fine.”

“Well, he ain’t supposed to be here,” said one of the smaller ones, frowning.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, clambering to his feet. He made his way out of the alley into the busy street, trying to ignore the whispers of the boys behind him. He felt a pebble hit the small of his back. It stung, but he was in no shape to fight. He’d fallen asleep in a white neighborhood, and he knew he’d end up with a lot worse than a necklace of bruises and some blood if he stayed there.

He walked until he was in a comfortably nonwhite neighborhood, and buckled on a street corner against a mailbox.

He’d escaped. What good was it if he was going to starve because he was too weak to get off a street corner?

The hot day whiled by. He couldn't force himself to get up, soaked in sweat and summer grime, and watched people pass by. Two or three flipped pennies at his feet, presumably thinking he was begging. He really couldn't complain about that.

Finally too hungry to stay in place, he dragged himself to his feet, his couple of cents clutched in his hand, and bought himself some bread. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

“Hey, boy,” said the old man behind the counter, frowning down at him. “What's your name?”

He remembered the last old man who'd called him boy and fed him, and he remembered his own name that brought bitterness to the tip of his tongue.

“Jack,” he said.

“There’s a lodging house nearby,” the man said, watching Jack eat his bread and cheese. “Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?”

A lodging house.

Jack’s head spun as memories hit him, cold and darkness and the skittering of rats, the feeling of a nightstick against his ribs, the pressure of big hands on his throat. Instinctively, Jack leapt to his feet and bolted, terrified at the thought that someone might return him to the Refuge. Would people look for him? He had no idea. Did they know his name? They had to. Abruptly thankful he’d changed his name, Jack slowed to a walk almost two blocks away from the bodega, exhaustion settling back into his bones.

He swallowed his last bite of food and curled up in an alley under a cloudy, starless sky. Jack wondered if that was going to be every night until he died: foggy and oppressive and terrifying. He thought if that were true, he should’ve let Snyder kill him in the Refuge.

Jack spent the next few days begging for pennies and spending them on food at the end of the day. Once, he had an extra penny left over, and used it to buy himself two pieces of candy. His body was healing from the Refuge- his head no longer felt fuzzy from the wounds he’d sustained leaving, and the bruises on his neck and the rest of his body were fading. He'd wandered to a neighborhood full of gambling and performances, and people dropped pennies like they were too hot to hold.

Darting between the legs of people cheering around a street performance, Jack managed to find three or four pennies, which meant he'd eat well that night. Quite satisfied with himself as the crowd began dispersing, Jack was counting his profits when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a very large peacock.

He whipped his head around, and upon further inspection, found that it was not a peacock, and instead a very large woman wearing a peacock feather in her hair. Her dress was sky blue and adorned with all manner of ribbons and sparkles, and her neck and fingers were heavy with jewelry.

She  _ screamed  _ rich.

Almost entranced, Jack followed her as she and the man on her arm walked cheerfully around the bustling neighborhood. Her presence was big and boastful and charismatic, and Jack’s chest was puffing up just by being near her.

The woman’s eyes fell on Jack, and, tentatively, he waved at her. Smiling brightly, she waved back, and Jack felt warmth in his chest for the first time in a very long while.

Jack loved to draw. Remembering this, Jack picked up an old newspaper and found a sheet inside that wasn't too dusty or ripped.

Very luckily for him, Jack happened upon a theater that had the face of that very woman emblazoned on its posters. He couldn't read her name, but she was just as beautiful as she had been walking on the street. Sitting across the street, Jack sketched out the woman, complete with the elaborate dress. Jack spent hours hunched over the paper, wanting very badly for it to be perfect.

He hadn't really planned on giving it to her, but she walked past him to the theater by the end of the long summer day. Gathering his nerve, Jack jumped to his feet and hurried after her.

“Miss! Miss!” he called, his voice hoarse with disuse.

She turned, eyes flickering with recognition and then confusion. Jack thrust the drawing at her, feeling his cheeks heat up as she took it.

“I done that for you,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pocket and avoiding her gaze.

“This is very good,” she said, slowly. “What’s your name?”

“Jack.” He paused.  _ She was real pretty, huh?  _ “Jack Kelly, miss.”

“You ever seen a vaudeville show, Mister Jack Kelly?” the woman asked him, her eyes sparkling as she folded the sketch carefully.

“What’s vaudeville?” Jack asked curiously.

“Why don’t you come with me?” The woman turned and swept inside, and Jack followed her into the cool theater. Jack’s jaw dropped as he slowed to take in the sight. It was huge, bigger than any room Jack had ever been in. The ceiling arched high above him, dim lights throwing shadows across the patterned wallpaper. Jack felt tiny.

“I’m having rehearsal right about now,” the woman said, laughing at Jack’s awed expression. “You’re welcome to stay and watch.”

Eagerly, Jack took a front row seat as the woman disappeared behind the curtain onstage. He kicked his feet in the dark for a while, waiting for the rehearsal to begin.

The curtains drew back, and Jack was entranced immediately.

Performers paraded across the stage, all dazzling and impressively talented. Every single one was costumed lavishly, and could sing like they had brass lungs or could dance like they were light as air. Jack was leaning forward in his seat, mouth hanging open as he absorbed the charisma and joy they all exuded. The finale was the woman who’d brought him there- Medda Larkin, as she was introduced. She, in Jack’s opinion, was the most talented of the group, and when she was finished holding out her last, impressive note, Jack stood on his seat and clapped as hard as he could.

“That was real good!” he shouted, to laughs from the performers.

“It better have been!” Medda replied from the stage, laughing. “I spent weeks picking out each one of these people. Look at Sam- he’s not just here because he’s tall!”

The man in question turned around and struck a pose, easy and self assured, and it worked, even though he had dark skin. People laughed with him, and Sam turned back to his conversation and looked happy doing it.

Jack wanted to be just like Medda and her performers. Clever, confident, talented, beautiful, funny people were never beaten or taken advantage of, and they were surely never left for dead. And very few of Medda’s performers weren’t white, but Medda wasn’t, either, and she was successful and exuberant and absolutely beautiful.

Jack didn’t particularly want to sing or dance. But maybe it was time to stop forcing himself to be tiny and silent. Maybe that was why this big hall was best for vaudeville. The performers had a presence so big they fit perfectly inside.

Medda sent Jack off with a wink, a shiny nickel pressed into his hand, and an invitation to come back anytime. Jack spent four whole cents on dinner, and, feeling extravagant, bought himself a brand new pencil with his five remaining cents. That night, he lay spread out on the theater’s rooftop, drawing under the moonlight. Jack had completely forgotten how beautiful the moon could be.

He fell asleep on an old newspaper, his drawing of the city with that big bright moon smudging under his cheek.

Days slipped by, and then weeks. Jack taught himself how to be boastful and funny and confident, and started stealing food when he couldn’t afford any. He was determined to be as tall and handsome as Sam had seemed to him. He visited the theater sometimes, and copied Sam’s swagger as carefully as he could.

It was like an illusion. The bigger Jack constructed himself, the bigger the cage of the city seemed to be. Nobody was going to put him back in the Refuge, nobody was going to leave him to the police, nobody was going to give him back to his father. Nobody was coming for him.

Or maybe they were, and they were all looking for Francis Sullivan.

Jack drew (because that was who he was now, an artist) a grave for Francis Sullivan. He sat in the cemetery for hours, getting it just right. All the shadows and nicks in the stone were perfectly placed. He put no name on the grave, but he knew who it was for.

Then he climbed to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, balled it up, and threw it into the water.

Francis Sullivan was gone.

Jack was okay with that. He had a new name. He was a new person. He was an artist.

Francis’s story was over. Done. Jack was sure that once he could convince himself of that, he’d be happy.

* * *

 

“Get back here!”

Jack took off running, several stolen apples in his arms, as the street vendor shouted after him. The early spring breeze blew through his ragged clothes as he ran as fast as he could, screaming with laughter. This market was always a good place to go- not because he was received well, far from it. It was for mostly middle class white people, so security was lax. More importantly, the food was  _ incredible. _

Jack’s life had gotten a lot better since he’d first met Medda. He liked being bold and confident. He was eating better, sleeping better, had friends, had even grown a few inches. Winter had been hard, but there were nonwhite churches with open doors, and he’d always had Medda. He’d made it through, and he was practically untouchable.

“What you up to now, Jack, huh?”

Jack skidded to a stop, holding the apples close to his chest. A grin broke over his face as he recognized Chirp, an older black boy he’d met while he was robbing that very same market. Jack didn’t know the kid’s real name (it couldn’t possibly be Chirp, could it?), but he was a newsboy. All the newsboys had strange names like that.

“Hey, Chirp.” Jack bit into his apple. “I is livin’ the high life,” he said cheekily, mouth full, “while you’s stuck doin’ whatever it is you doin’.”

“I’m makin’ a living,” Chirp retorted. “Buy a pape, sir?” he added as an older man walked by. He was ignored.

“Obviously,” Jack said, amused.

“They hates coloreds this far uptown, you know that,” Chirp said, stuffing his paper back into his bag.

“So why’s you sellin’ up here?” Jack asked.

Chirp got this private little smile that Jack was sure meant something. “No reason.”

Jack looked at him. “I’ll gives you an apple if you tells me.”

“I met a girl,” Chirp said immediately. Jack laughed and handed over the biggest apple, as he’d promised, and Chirp took a bite and relished it. “She works up here. She don’t live here, though, she ain’t snotty like all these rich folks. She’s real pretty.” Chirp looked a little dreamy. Jack had never felt like that about a girl, and he was glad for it. In the months since he’d escaped the Refuge, he’d learned how to behave like a proper street urchin, and getting all tongue tied and stupid over some girl wasn’t on the list.

“That’s nice, Chirp. That’s real nice.” Jack chewed with his mouth open. “But you ain’t gonna impress her by goin’ hungry just to sell near her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chirp said, deflating slightly. “I was gonna go sell in Lower Manhattan and then come back, but she ain’t out at her stall yet. She is, usually, by now. I was gettin’ worried.”

Jack tried to stifle laughter, but it didn’t work. Chirp cuffed him on the shoulder. “Shut up!”

“I ain’t say anythin’!” Jack said, laughing openly now.

“Yeah, but you’s laughin’! Quit makin’ fun of me.”

“I can’t help it,” Jack said gleefully. “You goin’ all soft!”

“Ain’t you ever liked a girl?” asked Chirp, looking horribly embarrassed.

“I mean, yeah,” Jack lied easily. “But I ain’t never this embarrassing about it.”

“Oh, shut up,” Chirp said irritably. “I got papes to sell, and you is annoying me.”

“Bye Chirp!” Rolling his eyes, Chirp started walking away. “Have fun with your girl!” Jack yelled, louder.

“I hate you, Jack!”

Laughing to himself, Jack finished his apple and tossed away the stem. He didn’t much like the core, but food was food. He ambled back to a neighborhood that was a little less residential and a little friendlier, waving to the many friends he’d made. It was so much easier to just exist when he was the dumb, happy-go-lucky brown thief people always seemed to expect him to be.

Jack wandered Lower Manhattan, too bored to commit to finding something to do. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright and a little bit of March bite to the air. He passed the afternoon playing marbles with a few boys he’d met in the park, and lost spectacularly. One of them, a boy named Charlie who was older than Jack by a couple of years, gave Jack a piece of cheese to eat with his apple, though, so Jack decided it had been worth it.

He liked Charlie. He was stocky, had a square jaw and a nice smile. Jack had always been drawn to boys with nice smiles.

Jack left the park at sunset, feeling considerably better for no real reason. So much better, in fact, that he decided to visit Medda. She could always tell when he was having a bad day, when memories of the past were hitting particularly hard, or he was feeling too trapped by the city. It was nice, he supposed, to have someone who cared, but he didn’t want anyone knowing that he’d even existed before he was Jack Kelly.

But today was a good day. Nothing could bring him down today.

Jack walked into Medda’s theater, his swagger a little exaggerated. There was a performance going on, so Jack searched from the back of the theater for a place to sit. His eyes landed on a familiar face, and he froze.

Snyder.

Abruptly, terror crashed through him. Jack could not move, could barely breathe under the assault of memories from the Refuge. Snyder was finally here, finally ready to drag him back and end him for good.

Jack turned and ran.

He couldn’t stop. His lungs burned and his legs ached, but Jack didn’t dare stop running. Night was falling, and every shadow looked like Snyder, looming large and menacing.

Coward. He was a coward. Shame dragged him down like a ball and chain on his feet. All he could ever do was run away, run far away.

The moon hung gray and accusing in the sky as Jack ran as far as his legs would take him. He had long crossed into Brooklyn before Jack finally had to stop and slump against a wall, his chest heaving. Unable to collect himself, Jack doubled over and vomited all over the pavement. He was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe past the vomit and the sobs and the painful stitch in his side and the hideous Manhattan skyline and Snyder’s face, swimming in his blotchy vision.

Jack lowered himself to the ground and closed his eyes, trying to wish himself somewhere better. The night slipped by, cold and frightening. When the sun rose, Jack wasn’t even sure if he’d gotten any sleep. The city looked the same as his nightmares. Wrung out, Jack hauled himself to his feet and wandered around. He’d never been to Brooklyn before. It didn’t look much friendlier than Manhattan, even under the baby pink dawn sky.

It didn’t take him long to realize he was completely lost. The buildings were lower than in Manhattan, but he couldn’t see the water, had no idea which direction he’d come from. Jack wasn’t even sure he wanted to go back. Snyder knew where Medda Larkin’s theater was. It wasn’t safe, not anymore.

Jack felt a pang of guilt about leaving Medda without so much a goodbye, after all those long winter nights they’d spent sitting together in her theater. But it wasn’t enough to make him want to go back.

Before long, newsboys were walking around hawking their papers. They weren’t quite friendly, but Jack was okay with that. The quiet was nice. He could make himself a brand new story here, if he really wanted to. It was a blank slate.

Jack Kelly was comfortable, though, a familiar blanket that had served him well through the winter months. He could keep this name, this past, draw himself up a new life in Brooklyn.

Jack climbed to a roof, thinking that it might make him feel better, like it had in Manhattan. It didn’t. Eventually Jack closed his eyes and slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Brooklyn was claustrophobic and restless, like Manhattan, but mean, too. Mean in a quiet, blunt kind of way that Jack had never encountered before. He was beat out of alleys and stores more harshly, but otherwise, Jack was left alone.

The street rats of Brooklyn were shorter, bigger, and just as mean as the rest of the borough, and they had a king named Dill.

Dill was an eighteen year old white boy with a scar just under his jaw, and was said to carry a gold handle cane that kids said he beat his enemies with. Jack never saw him during his reign, but Dill was notorious. He was the first in the city to have real organization behind his position. He had a mean streak the size of his kingdom, and being on his good side was occasionally just as dangerous as being on his bad one. People said he'd gotten his scar fighting a cop, and people said the cop had come out worse.

Jack spent his first few weeks learning the best places to sleep and eat and get out of the rain. He learned who to avoid, how best to dodge bigger boys who enforced Dill’s sovereignty, older men who chased away street rats, and anyone else who made sport of beating young brown boys away. Jack was powerless and small in Manhattan, but at least he'd learned to hide it from himself. He’d expanded like a balloon, and running away to Brooklyn had popped it.

But Jack got to his feet eventually. He straightened his back, lengthened his strides, twitched his face into his practiced cocky expression. He tried to remember how old he was now- twelve? thirteen? and tried to appear older. He befriended the street urchins and the newsboys, traded marbles and shoes and candies with them.

He adapted. The weeks marched past.

It was a cloudy May morning that found Jack walking near the water. He was wrestling stolen canned soup open with a stolen penknife. It was easier to steal food in Brooklyn for whatever reason, and Jack had taken advantage of it. He'd been forced into Brooklyn, but he happily stole fruit, canned meats, and candies whenever he wanted.

The newsboys had been out for a few hours, and mostly knew Jack around here. He waved hello to several before he was distracted by a soft voice.

“Hey. Hey, you wanna pape?”

Jack looked around and could not find the source of the whisper for a moment before he looked down. It was a small brown boy, stick skinny, impish features. Couldn’t be older than seven. He'd probably assumed Jack was older. People did that a lot.

“Nah.”

“Please?” The boy looked desperate. “Look, it’s a crazy headline.”

“What is it?” Jack asked, intrigued.

The boy’s pathetic expression flickered. “Can’t you read?” he asked.

Suddenly embarrassed, Jack tried not to withdraw. “Course I can,” he bluffed. “Just figured you knowed your own pape.”

Jack watched the boy turn from looking slouched and sick to looking older and more confident. It was a remarkable transformation, and apparently a very profitable one.

 _“I_ knows,” the boy said slyly. “I’ll makes you a deal. If you reads that headline, you gets the whole pape free.”

“Fine,” Jack bit out. “I can’t read. Happy?”

The boy looked like he’d just seen Santa in the flesh. “I was just wonderin’,” he said.

“Yeah, well, don’t.” On impulse, Jack snatched the paper out of the boy’s hand and ripped it in two, throwing it to the ground. Abruptly, the boy’s eyes filled with tears and he seemed to revert back to his young, frightened image.

“W-why you done that?” he asked shakily, and Jack’s heart sank.

“Hey, I- I is sorry, okay?” Jack said uneasily. He had no idea how to handle a crying child.

The boy’s lip trembled, exacerbating Jack’s growing panic. “I’ll gets you some candy, okay?”

In an instant, the boy’s face cleared like the spring sky, and he smiled brightly. “Okay. Can I finish sellin’ first?”

“Yeah,” Jack said slowly as the boy walked past him, waving a paper and shouting the headline. Not entirely sure what had just happened, Jack wiped his knife on his pants and used it to pick out the chunks of meat from his soup and eat them. The smaller boy returned within the hour.

“Where's me candy?” the boy asked cheerfully as he strolled over to where Jack was seated, scraping the last bits of chicken out of the can.

“How old is you?” Jack asked.

“Eleven,” the boy replied, puffing out his chest. “I turns twelve in the summer.”

“So you's runnin’ that starvin’ little orphan routine on all these suckers?” Jack threw his empty can into the water and pocketed his knife.

“Yeah. It pays me rent, and extra for Dill,” the boy said, shrugging. “I’m Spot.”

“Jack. You works for Dill?”

“Yeah. He got himself a team of newsies for extra cash. And to tell him about any del- developments they sees in Brooklyn, but all the newsies is supposed to do that,” Spot added. “You from Manhattan?”

“Yeah. I wasn't no newsie, though,” Jack said, stretching to show off his broadening shoulders. “I likes me my freedom.”

“Yeah, and you can't read,” snickered Spot.

“Well, you’s so ugly it looks like Dill was the only one willin’ to watch you after your mama dumped you, but that ain’t my business neither,” retorted Jack. Effectively silenced, Spot sat down next to Jack.

“Is you gonna buy me candy or not?”

“No.”

“You promised.”

“You’s a lyin’ stinker, Spot.”

“Yeah, but you promised.”

“Because you was bein’ a lyin’ stinker." 

Spot laughed, and somehow, after that, Jack couldn’t shake him. Jack couldn't play with his friends or go anywhere without Spot trailing after him like an obnoxious puppy. Spot was only a couple years younger than Jack, but he was far smaller and behaved much younger.

“Is this why they calls you Spot?” Jack asked as Spot tagged along with Jack and the older boys.

“Why?” Spot said.

“Cause you follows me around like a dog,” Jack would answer, and then he patted Spot mockingly and grinned.

They had this exchange nearly every day, but Jack never really chased Spot off and Spot never lost enthusiasm.

Summer was approaching. Brooklyn got hotter than Manhattan ever had, and every hydrant from Bay Ridge to Queens was open at least once a week. Spirits rose with the temperature. The usually rough, quiet Brooklyn kids became boisterous and cheerful.

Spot had not left Jack alone, although Jack had mostly stopped pretending Spot bothered him. Spot knew his own birthday, which was rare for a street kid, and was very vocal about the fact that he expected his twelfth birthday to be celebrated. Jack spent hours drawing Spot on the back of an old flyer. He was very careful about not letting Spot know what he was doing, but got cold feet about giving it to him at the last moment. Instead, he stole Spot a cake.

Half the newsies in Brooklyn gathered by the pier for Spot’s birthday. It was a day when the sun seemed to be baking the pavestones, and the kids without shoes had to wrap scraps of cloth around their feet to avoid burning their soles. It was rare for so many street kids to have need to be in one place at the same time, and there was superstition surrounding large gatherings like this. Things happened when big groups of street urchins got together.

Jack, knowing this, encouraged the rumors. People were about a million times more likely to show up if they thought that something terrible or interesting would happen, and Spot would be thrilled at seeing so many people gathered just for him.

So on a bright July day, the pier was full of people carrying their toys and their breakfasts and sometimes nothing at all, simply ready to see their friends and jump into the water. Spot was satisfiedly snapping a pair of bright red suspenders when Jack arrived past noon.

“Happy birthday, Spot,” Jack said, carting the cake high over his head so as to keep it away from the other grabbing hands. Jack had grown much taller and broader over the year since he’d escaped from the Refuge, and he was glad to be bigger than many of the other boys for once. Spot never stopped complaining about how much shorter than Jack was, and Jack lorded it over him.

“Good of you to show up, Jackie!” Spot said cheerfully, running his thumb under his new suspenders. “You brung cake!”

“Course I did,” Jack said. “It was expensive!”

“Actin’ like he paid for it,” Spot stage whispered to snickering from the boys standing around them.

“I’ll take it back then,” Jack said, grinning as Spot quickly grabbed for the cake.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Spot said. Jack laughed, and they sat with their friends surrounding them and gorged themselves on cake. A new boy Jack had never seen before was with them, too, with warm dark brown skin and the kind of smile that Jack had always liked. Spot threw a piece of cake at Jack when he was distracted staring at the new boy, which reminded Jack he wasn’t supposed to be doing such things. Jack pushed Spot into the water, and then Spot splashed Jack, who jumped into the water and splashed the new boy in the process.

The new boy looked up, and for a heartstopping moment, Jack thought he’d get angry. Then that bright smile broke over his face like the summer sun, and the boy took off his shoes and dived in.

It wasn’t exactly a party, but it wasn’t a regular day, either. True to New York street mythology, the gathering had been the most eventful part of the summer. They’d robbed nearby stores blind, and had stayed out shouting and celebrating late into the night far past the time that Spot left. People said even Dill had showed up, had settled and started a few wars. Jack, who’d spent so much time carefully orchestrating the notoriety of Spot’s birthday, barely heard or cared about it after the fact. The most momentous part of it, for him, had been Angel, the new boy with the sunshine smile.

Angel assimilated neatly into the group of boys Spot and Jack played with, but Jack hated spending time with Angel. It made his stomach feel odd, and he found he wasn't half as quick witted with Angel present. Jack was sure Angel thought he was a complete idiot, which bothered him.

Well. It didn't much matter. Angel had a home and a family, so he wasn't out as often as the rest of them. This produced a strange ache in Jack, which he decided to address by ignoring until it went away.

Unfortunately for him, Jack ran into Angel again without the others present. He was working in a store that had opened only late that spring. Jack had, admittedly, been trying to steal, but seeing Angel behind the counter completely drove those thoughts from his mind.

“Jack?”

“Angel, it’s- I ain’t knew you worked here,” Jack said, trying desperately not to look guilty.

“Yeah, this is my dad’s store,” Angel said, smiling that smile as he slid off his chair behind the counter and walked around to meet Jack. “It don’t get much business, but.” Angel shrugged. “Someone gotta work it.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, feeling suddenly stupid and nervous. “I- I hafta go.” Jack whirled around and darted out of the store, and did not stop running for three blocks.

“You’s so stupid,” Jack muttered to himself as he leaned against a building, trying to catch his breath. “Just run every time somethin’ makes your stomach go funny?”

Embarrassment curdling his insides, Jack found a stub of chalk in his pocket and sat down to scribble on the side of a building. He drew mountains, a river, a beautiful place devoid of gray buildings or black boys with nice smiles.

Groaning, Jack pressed the back of his head against the wall. Not for the first time, Jack thought about going to talk to Medda and ask her what she thought. He thought she probably had experience with whatever it was that was plaguing him.

Only half consciously, Jack began to withdraw from his friends. He didn't like being around Angel, but the boy still occupied all his thoughts. It was baffling.

But Jack couldn't run forever. Eventually, Angel cornered him in the late morning, papers tucked under Angel’s arm and a furrow between his brows.

“I ain't seen you in a while,” Angel said, falling into step beside him.

Jack weighed the pros and cons of running away. “Yeah.”

“Where you been?” Angel asked, clearly trying to stay cheerful as he bumped Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s stomach turned.

“Around,” Jack said briefly.

“Oh.” Angel looked disappointed, and, well. Jack hadn't wanted that.

“What's the headlines?” Jack asked.

“Here,” Angel said, pulling a newspaper out of his stack. “Slow day anyway.”

Jack took the paper and stared down at it, feeling mortification boiling in his stomach. “Nah,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “I can't read. My daddy never bothered himself to teach me.” Jack reflected bitterly on the fact that the other street kids, only around half of whom could read, never made him feel as stupid for it as the newsboys did.

Angel did not mock him. He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Tells you what. Help me finish sellin’ my papes, and I’ll teach you to read.”

“I don't need to read,” retorted Jack.

“I guess not,” Angel said, taking the paper back, and curse him, he looked a little crestfallen.

“But it wouldn't hurt, probably,” Jack said after a long minute. “I guess.”

Angel’s whole face brightened when he smiled. Jack liked that about him.

Jack had no idea what the headlines were, so when he took half of Angel’s stack, he shouted the most attention grabbing nonsense he could think of.

“City hall burned down!”

“Ellis Island attacked!”

“Tallest building in the world falls down!”

Every last paper he was holding was gone within an hour, and Jack trailed after Angel for another half hour while Angel apparently tried to sell the truth.

“Took you long enough,” Jack said when Angel was finally finished.

“How'd you do it so fast?” Angel asked grumpily.

“I lied,” Jack said, laughing. “It was easy.”

“I got _customers,”_ Angel said importantly. “My dad says that's important.”

“My dad says your dad smells,” Jack said, mostly because he thought Angel might be right.

“Shut up,” Angel said, shoving Jack. “Uh, my sister’ll be home, maybe, but no one else. So it won't be so bad."

“Thanks,” Jack said quietly.

“No problem, Jackie.”

They walked quietly until they got into a residential neighborhood, full of mostly brown families packed into apartment buildings.

“I lives over there,” Angel said, tugging Jack across the street as Jack’s cheeks heated up. Feeling very foolish for no reason at all, Jack followed Angel up a set of narrow stairs.

Angel’s family’s home was very small, very warm, and smelled very good. A short young woman was standing by the stove, cooking, and Jack saw Angel’s smile on her face as she looked up and saw them enter.

“Angel!” she said happily. “You brought a friend?”

“This is Jack,” Angel said, trying to catch a glimpse of what she was cooking. “Jack, this is my sister Carmen.”

“Staying for dinner?” Carmen asked.

Jack wouldn't turn down a hot meal that smelled so good no matter how odd Angel made his stomach feel. He nodded, hoping she could see how grateful he was.

Angel’s room wasn't really Angel’s. Four beds were crammed in, nearly wall to wall, but Angel didn't seem terribly concerned about which bed was whose. He sprawled himself across them and grinned up at Jack, who felt like his tongue had stopped working when they'd arrived.

“Your sister’s nice,” Jack said, toeing off his shoes and sitting on the edge of one of the beds. It was the first time in years.

“She's bossy,” replied Angel, rolling over and digging around under the bed for something. “She teached me English. Mostly just got rid of my accent.”

“Accent?”

“My mom and dad talk Spanish, mostly,” Angel said. “We didn't need English at home.”

“Home?” asked Jack, intrigued.

“We come from New Mexico,” Angel said, surfacing with a couple of books in his hands. “Santa Fe.”

“Santa Fe,” Jack repeated. “What was it like?”

Angel smiled, and it was different from his usual bright one. He looked soft, a little sad.

“Better,” he said.

They were perfectly quiet for a few seconds before Angel sighed and opened one of the books. “This is my brother’s,” he said. “He shares it with my sister, ‘cause she works and don't have time for school. You knows your letters?”

Jack tried to remember. He'd gone to school for a bit, when he was younger, but had stopped going when he realized his father didn't care where he went.

“A, B, C. D.”

“Good,” Angel said encouragingly.

“F.”

“Missed one.”

“G?”

“No, E.” Angel sat up straight and crossed his legs. “Say it after me.” Angel recited the alphabet once. Jack was starting to think reading was a bit of a scam. That was, what, thirty letters? Who could memorize that?

Jack tried to repeat Angel, but he missed a few letters and mixed a couple up. The more patient Angel was, the more frustrated Jack got. Jack was sure Angel was a perfectly good teacher, but Jack couldn't seem to pin down L M N O P.

“What's the damn point of this, anyway?” Jack said irritably. “I can't read, and I’m fine.”

“Don't you wanna?” Angel asked, looking surprised. “My dad says-”

“I don't care what your dad says,” snapped Jack, wishing he’d never agreed to this.

“Okay, well.” Angel was looking annoyed now, and Jack abruptly regretted saying anything. Why could he do nothing right around Angel?

Jack fidgeted quietly for a moment. Then he said, “L, M, N, O, P.”

By the time Carmen called them for dinner, Jack knew all the letters and all the sounds associated with them (even H and W, which he was very proud of). Dinner was lively, although Angel’s father wasn't be present. Nobody really seemed to mind, but around half of the conversation was in Spanish, so Jack wasn't sure.

Angel’s family was almost overwhelmingly kind. Jack was stuffed with delicious food and by the end of the night, his cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Your family's real nice,” Jack said at Angel’s door. “Carmen cooks good.”

“Yeah.” Angel seemed to be gathering courage. “Do you wanna come again tomorrow? I’ll teach you more.”

Jack could not find it in himself to say no, and he stared at Angel like his mother had stared at a boy more than ten years before.

“Yeah. Thanks. Thank you,” Jack said, a little stiff but sincere. Angel gave him a genuine smile and Jack left.

Feeling suddenly euphoric, Jack whooped and began running down the street. He went to sleep that night reciting his letters, Angel filling his dreams.

Angel, Angel, Angel was all Jack could think about for weeks. Jack barely even saw Spot for a while, completely occupied with Angel and learning to read. He found that after the alphabet, it was easy, and assigning the sounds to the symbols was even easier. Angel’s father, a short, broad man, proclaimed that Jack had a good eye.

Jack learned about Santa Fe, too. Angel described to him in exquisite detail the city, which was a city really only in name. The buildings were few and all made of clay, and the air smelled clear and there were so many stars in the sky you couldn't count them.

“No white people there, neither,” Angel said, his head resting on Jack’s thigh. Rain was falling, unusually cold for the season, but it was warm in Angel’s room.

“Yeah?” Jack was focusing on copying a short article from a leftover newspaper.

“Yeah. They's all black and brown in Santa Fe.” Angel grinned up at Jack. “It’s my birthday today.”

Jack dropped his pencil onto Angel’s forehead.

“Sorry! Happy birthday.” Jack fumbled for his pencil. Angel laughed and gave it to him.

“S’okay. I dunno if it's really my birthday. My momma said I was born in the autumn, so I just count it as September the first,” Angel said, turning his head to look at Jack’s paper. “Your writin’s real good.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, feeling a now familiar heat rise in his cheeks. Almost absentmindedly, he began sketching Angel’s face.

“When's your birthday?” Angel asked, closing his eyes. Jack watched the way his eyelashes fanned over his cheeks.

“Winter,” Jack said. “Round Christmas.”

“Hey, you could come celebrate with us,” Angel said, grinning. “We’ll get you a present.”

“I don't need no present,” Jack said a little shyly. “S’good to be here.”

They fell quiet again, Jack’s pencil scratching on the paper.

“Hey. Lemme see how far you got.” Angel sat up, and Jack instinctively hid the paper. He'd never showed his drawings to anybody but Medda.

“What you doin’? Jack-” Angel tugged at the paper, confused.

“Lemme finish first. Then I’ll show you, promise,” Jack said, mostly stalling. Angel looked at him oddly, but acquiesced. He lay down again, resting his head against Jack’s leg.

Neglecting the work he was supposed to be doing, Jack painstakingly drew Angel almost until dinnertime.

“Okay.”

“Is you done? Finally.” Angel propped himself up on his elbow, looking expectant. Nerves churning in his stomach, Jack presented him the paper.

Angel gaped down at it. Unable to watch him, Jack stared down at his fidgeting fingers.

“Jack, this is. Wow.” Angel laughed weakly. “Anybody got this much talent, they should be rich and famous.”

Jack couldn't find anything to say. “Nah,” he said finally.

“It looks just like me!” Angel said excitedly.  “Look- my hair is exactly that.”

Jack said nothing. He’d worked at getting Angel’s hair just right for about half an hour.

“Thank you.” Angel sat up and threw his arms around Jack, throwing them both off balance, but Angel didn't let go.   

“Happy birthday,” Jack said softly.

Jack slept the night, as he had started doing occasionally. He'd at first been afraid that he was being intrusive, but he wasn't one to resist a roof and a soft bed. He left early the next morning. 

"Hey, Jack! I ain't seen you in a while!"

Jack slowed as he heard Spot, grinning at the younger boy. "Hey, Spot."  
  
Spot caught up to him. "Where you was yesterday?" he asked. "Thought you said you was gonna help me sell."  
  
"Oh, shoot, sorry," Jack said, frowning. "I was-"  
  
"With Angel," Spot finished, annoyed. "Course."  
  
"It was his birthday," Jack said defensively, and then asked himself why he was being defensive. He didn't need to explain himself to Spot.  
  
"You been hangin' with Angel without stoppin' since the summer," Spot said. "Ain't you done?"  
  
"We's friends. I's still friends with you, Spot," Jack said, trying to make nice. He threw his arm around Spot's shoulder. "I'll sells with you today, yeah?"  
  
"I's already done sellin'."  
  
"Oh." Jack frowned. That was fast. "Hey, uh, wanna see somethin'?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Jack stopped, Spot bumping into him.  
  
"You stink-"  
  
"Shush. Hold on." Jack squinted at a sign in a window. "Ch- Shavin' cream hall- half off," he read. He turned to Spot, beaming.  
  
"You can read now," Spot said, crossing his arms.  
  
"Oh, come on. I could read a whole pape now'n I couldn't string a couple words together last month," Jack said happily, putting his arm around Spot again and continuing to walk. Spot finally cracked a smile.  
  
"I guess that's pretty neat," he conceded. "Real neat, Jackie."  
  
Jack had, truthfully, forgotten all about Spot in his euphoria with Angel. Feeling bad, Jack spent the day with him. Spot had picked up another new kid, a paler boy named Fidge. He was twitchy, but nice enough.  
  
After that, Jack did his best to balance Angel and Spot. Angel, all warm and lovely, welcomed Jack into his home with open arms, but Jack reminded himself that he couldn't leave Spot out to dry again. Winter was on its way, and no street kid, especially not one was small as Spot, was safe without a few friends they could depend on. Jack was almost fourteen now, and he'd seen the casualties of New York winters.  
  
Increasingly, though, Spot didn't seem to need Jack. There was an ever growing group of kids that stuck on him wherever he went, including Fidge. They were as young as eight or as old as fifteen, mostly black and brown, but with a few Jews and Italians in the mix. Still, Jack liked Spot, and made sure to spend time with him, watch after him.  
  
Jack's life was perfectly in balance, until the day after Christmas.  
  
Jack was leaving Angel's building after having spent two consecutive nights there. Angel's family had celebrated both Christmas and Jack's birthday, and had presented him with a hand me down jacket. Angel had fallen asleep with his arms around Jack both nights. Jack hardly needed his new coat, getting warm remembering the way Angel's heavy body had felt pressed against his in the small bed.  
  
It hadn't snowed on Christmas night, and Jack was enjoying the bright morning sunlight as he wandered without any real purpose. He was full from dinner the night before, and warm with his jacket wrapped around him. It would be a good day, he was sure.  
  
Deciding to visit Spot, Jack started towards the place he usually sold his papers. Oddly, there were very few newsboys out, and Spot wasn't one of them.  
  
Thinking he might've just slept late, Jack retraced Spot's usual morning footsteps- to the Times, and then back to the Brooklyn lodging house, and found no sign of him. In fact, the lodging house was almost completely empty.  
  
Unnerved now, Jack clutched his coat tighter around himself and set off to check Spot's usual haunts. He couldn't possibly have gone far.  
  
On his way to the pier, he was stopped by a pair of older boys, both big and both looking very mean.  
  
"You gotta lotta nerve, showin' you face out here," one of them sneered at him. "After what happened last night."  
  
Jack blinked. "Huh?"  
  
"Don't act dumb," said the other, pushing him.  
  
"I weren't around last night," Jack said, putting his hands up. "What happened?"  
  
The boys exchanged a glance. "You coloreds tried a rebellion," one of them finally said. "One of yous tried to take out Dill, as he was sleepin' in his bed."  
  
"You's all rats," added the other. "I thinks I is gonna take a piece outta you, just to make sure you isn't fakin' knowin' nothing."  
  
Jack, knowing danger when he sensed it, had already started running before the boy finished his sentence. Head spinning, he tried to make sense of what he'd been told. The colored kids had tried to change leadership? God, Dill would string them up- Jack had no idea why they'd tried this in the dead of winter. What role had Spot played in all this? Jack knew, probably better than anyone, that Spot got very reckless and very violent when he was worked up, despite his usually reasonable exterior. Jack, in fact, often tried to bring out this reckless side of Spot, since it was a lot of fun. But-  
  
Jack brought himself back down to earth. Right now, his first priority was to find Spot and the other nonwhite kids and to avoid Dill's boys. Fear growing in a lump in his throat, Jack searched for Spot and the others all over Brooklyn. The sun made its slow way across the sky, and Jack was caught several times and escaped several times. It was already growing dark, and Jack was terrified that once it was really night, he wouldn't be able to find them. Half of them could freeze to death; being used to the lodging house. What if it snowed?

Jack, in his desperation, began checking roofs. With him being the exception, street kids didn't like being on the roof (too open, too close to the sky, which was exactly why Jack liked it). His hands got raw and blistered from climbing up and down buildings, searching roofs and alleyways and everywhere he could think of. To his great relief, he finally found a few kids huddled together on top of a low building, under a blanket.

“Hey!” Jack called out softly. He hauled himself onto the roof and started towards them, slowly. “You hidin’ from Dill?”

Three black boys looked up at him, all looking half frozen. “Jack?” one asked.

“Pete.” Jack knelt by them. He recognized them, but only knew Pete’s name. “Is you all okay? What happened last night? I been lookin’ for yous all day. Take my coat. Where’s Spot? Who tried to take out Dill? Where’s you been?" 

“Wanna take a breath, cowboy?” Pete asked, mustering a grin despite his chattering teeth. He was older than Jack, probably around fifteen. “Blue, take Jack’s coat.”

Jack wrapped his coat around the youngest boy, who gave him a grateful look and huddled closer to Pete.

“So?” Jack asked, directing the question at Pete.

Pete sighed. “I dunno. I been told a lotta different things. Think I got a clear picture. Not all the colored kids was involved, but that’s what Dill thinks.”

“His boys never let me alone,” Jack said, nodding.

“His boys never let anyone alone,” said Peter irritably. “It was Snaps.”

Snaps. An older brown boy, a newsboy, with a considerable following among the Brooklyn street kids. Sixteen, if Jack remembered correctly. “He wanted to be king?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Blue here says few of the colored boys were pushin’ him to do it. He’s a hell of a lot nicer than Dill, ain’t he?” Pete sighed. “Come sit with us, Jack, you gotta be cold.”

Jack inched forward to sit with the other boys, sharing body heat among the four of them.

“Snaps tried to kill him then?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, him and his boy Chuck.” Pete’s eyes were fixed on the skyline across the river. “Few others kept Dill’s guards down, and Chuck and Snaps went to do the job. I dunno if you seen Dill, though, he’s big as a bull and a thousand times meaner. He killed Snaps right there, and then Dill and all his went rampagin’ to look for whoever backed up Snaps. He thinks it was all the colored kids who was goin’ behind his back for Snaps. I dunno. But it ain’t safe to be out.”

“Was Spot part of it?” Jack asked, fear making him shake as much as the cold. “I been lookin’ high and low for him, Pete, and I can’t find him.” Spot was lost, gone, maybe. Dead, maybe.

“I dunno,” Pete said quietly. “Sorry.”

“Fidge was with Snaps,” one of the younger boys murmured from Pete’s side. “He was right in the middle of it.”

Jack’s blood ran cold. Fidge followed Spot everywhere, and was a shy boy himself. There was no way he’d be in the middle of a rebellion, not unless Spot had led him there.

“Oh, God.” Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “I gotta find Spot. Pete, I- he ain’t safe, I gotta- I gotta-”

“You is gonna freeze to death if you go now,” Pete said firmly. “Stay’n get warm with us, okay? We’ll look tomorrow.”

“No.” Jack disentangled himself from the others. “Keep the coat. I gotta find Spot.”

“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid,” Pete snapped.

“You can’t stop me,” spat Jack. “I gotta find him.”

Pete exhaled, his breath silver in the nightfall. “Take your damn jacket,” he said. “We is gonna be fine here. Come back if you don’t got him by sunrise, and if you starts gettin’ slow or sleepy then come back. Jack. You hear?”

“Yeah, I hears.”

“Good.” Pete swallowed, and Jack thought for a second he could see tears shining in his eyes. “No more colored kids is gonna die.”

Jack nodded, wishing so hard that he could agree. He climbed down the fire escapes and set off to look for Spot and Fidge, mourning Snaps silently.

He kept searching, knowing it was almost all desperation fueling him. It was still early, but winter nights were inevitably deadly. His hands and face were numb quickly, and Jack was all too glad that it hadn’t started snowing.

Christmas decorations were up all over the city, and Jack wished bitterly he could tear them all down. He could practically see it, he thought disgustedly, families tucked inside with their Christmas wreaths still up and their big Christmas leftover dinners and their warm beds and their warm glow of love and security.

Spot was out here somewhere, and these people had the nerve to be happy and safe? It wasn’t fair. Tears clung to his lashes, and he brushed them away so they wouldn’t freeze there.

Him. He had had the nerve to be warm and full and happy, little finger wound around Angel’s under the table. Jack’s throat was raw and stinging with cold and guilt.

Jack arrived at the Brooklyn Bridge, the last place he knew of to search.

There was nothing but a small, brown skinned body lying still at the edge of the water.

Heart dropping to his stomach, Jack skidded down the banks of the river, nearly falling over in his rush to get down to the body. He turned it over and found Fidge’s nervous eyes, filmed over and still in death.

Jack felt a rush of gratefulness that it wasn’t Spot. Then he turned away from the body and threw up into the river, hoping the bile would burn away the guilt in his throat.

“Where the fuck you been!”

Jack whirled around to see Spot advancing on him.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Spot, thank God-”

“You been gone for _days!”_ shouted Spot.

“I know, I know, I’s sorry-”

“You _left_ me!” Spot said furiously, his hands balled in fists. “You even care? You even care that I been stuck here hidin’ all day? You care that Dill’s boys is puttin’ down colored kids, all over Brooklyn? You care that Fidge is gone? Huh?”

“Course I care!” Jack yelled back.

“Then where the _fuck_ you been?”

Jack found himself silent.

Spot’s lip curled. “With Angel, huh? Tucked up with your boyfriend?”

“He ain’t my boyfriend.”

“But you lets your people die to have Christmas dinner with him,” Spot said icily. “Yeah, I sees it. Okay.”

“I been searchin’ for you, all day,” Jack said, but the words sounded hollow to his own ears. “I’m sorry, Spot, okay? Really. I just wanted a warm bed on Christmas. If you’da told me that you was doin’ this- tryin’ to take down Dill- you know I woulda been right next to you. You _know.”_ Jack dropped to the ground and rubbed tears out of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He heard footsteps. Spot got to his knees beside Jack and put his arms around him. Jack, for a moment, thought that Spot was comforting him, but realized the younger boy was shaking with tears.

“We keep dyin’,” Spot whispered into Jack’s shoulder.

“I know.”

Jack tugged Spot to his feet and they made their way back to the roof where Pete and the younger boys were hiding. Somewhere, a clock rang midnight, signifying December 27th. It was the day that Aliyah had died, exactly fourteen years before.

Jack brought Spot back to the roof and then set off again in search of some of the other scattered street kids. By morning, Jack had found three more, expanding their small group to eight. He also hadn't slept.

“Jack. Is you okay?” Spot asked sleepily from the pile of six as Jack returned with a seventh. “S’almost mornin’.”

“Yeah. Found Mite here,” Jack said, helping the younger boy onto the roof. “An’ I talked to one of the girls from the girls lodgin’ house. They got space to take a couple younger kids.”

“That safe?” asked Fish, an older boy that Jack had found downtown.

“Yeah, sure,” Pete said. “Dill don't think much of them girls. Probably thinks they don't know nothin’ about no rebellion.”

“They’s a lot smarter than people give ‘em credit for,” Spot said thoughtfully.

“Folks is always underestimatin’ folks,” Pete said sagely.  “Come on. Let’s get you boys to the lodgin’ house.”

“I’ll meets you there,” Jack said. “I gotta do somethin’ first.”

As fast as he could, Jack made his way to Angel’s building. He climbed up the fire escapes and tapped on Angel’s window, heart pounding in his throat.

“Jack?” Angel pushed open the window, looking like he’d just been woken up. “What is you doin’ here?”

“Don't go out today, if you can,” Jack said.

“Why? You looks a mess, you want breakfast?”

“No, Angel, listen. There was a rebellion last night- you knows Dill?”

Angel was suddenly wide awake. “The king?”

“The king,” Jack confirmed. “Someone tried to take him over, and he thinks it was all the colored kids workin’ behind his back. His boys is roamin’ lookin’ for them. Make sure that you’s with someone if you goin’ out.”

“Okay.” Angel nodded. “I will.”

Satisfied, Jack made to leave. Angel stopped him.

“This don't have nothin’ to do with Dill, I guess.” Angel exhaled. “Good luck, Jackie.” He leaned forward and hugged Jack. For the briefest of moments, Jack thought he felt the corner of Angel’s mouth drag across his cheek, but then Angel was withdrawing.

“I’ll see you,” Jack said, wondering if he was hallucinating from lack of sleep.

Kisses and hallucinations aside, Jack was able to get the group of boys he’d found to the girls lodging house before the sun rose. Cee, an older black girl who seemed to run things in the girls lodging house, ensured everyone was safe and hidden.

Jack, sitting between Pete and a girl they’d just met, noticed Spot talking to Cee, like a pair of diplomats. Jack watched as Spot visited each of the boys, face drawn and solemn. Spot pulled out a smile and a reassuring word for each one, even though Fidge was still lying under the Brooklyn Bridge. He was small and short, twelve years old, but he looked confident and responsible. Like he was just short of a kingdom.

Jack wondered how involved Spot had really been in the rebellion. Twelve was a little too young to take the crown, but it wasn’t too young to pressure an heir.

The girls were all up and getting ready for the day, working or begging or whatever else they did to earn money. The younger boys, not including Spot, went to sleep, and Jack, Pete, Fish, and Spot all went out to search for more nonwhite boys who’d been chased away from their places of sleep and play.

It was long, difficult work. The cold was vicious, and Jack hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep the night before. It was hard to find those who’d been involved. They were most likely either hiding or gone, and other nonwhite kids were keeping their heads down under Dill’s new violence. Over the next few days, their group expanded to fifteen, mostly boys between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. It was Jack who found Chuck.

Snaps’s former second, a sixteen year old black boy who looked like he hadn’t eaten in days and had been crying for just as long. Jack found him begging in Brooklyn Heights. A long way from home.

“Hey.”

Chuck looked up, and Jack recognized him. “You is Chuck, right?”

His face filled with fear. “Here to take me to Dill?” he asked.

“Nah,” Jack said. “I been lookin’ for everyone involved with the rebellion. Gotta stick together, y’know. Keep safe. We got near everyone, I think.”

“Spot too?” Chuck asked.

Jack eyed him. “Yeah, Spot too,” he said. “Chuck, was Spot- how much did Spot do?”

“Who’s you to ask?”

“Jack.”

“Oh, _you’s_ Jack?” A smile crossed Chuck’s face. “Spot don’t shut up but he specially don’t shut up about you.”

Jack laughed a little. “He just kinda adopted me.”

“Spot’s like that.” Chuck shifted, resting his head against the building behind him. “Knows how to talk, that kid. Knows how to make people listen. He been whispering in Snaps’s ear for months. I bet money he got Snaps to start that rebellion.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jack stood up and held out a hand. “Come on, anyway. We tryna get everyone safe.”

“Where’s you stayin’?” Chuck asked, taking Jack’s hand and getting up.

“Girls lodgin’ house near yours,” Jack said. “Cee’s bein’ real nice. Promised Spot she’ll hide us from Dill.”

“We prob’ly shoulda asked for her help,” Chuck said ruefully.

“S’exactly what she said.”

On the first day of 1896, it snowed. It wasn’t the first snow of the winter, but it was the worst so far. It was getting more and more difficult to hide sixteen people in the lodging house, especially as none but Jack and the two youngest of their group could work without being bothered by Dill’s boys. Cee’s generosity was running out after nearly a week.

Jack came back to the girls lodging house on January first shaking snow out of his hair and rattling his few cents in his pocket. It was nearly impossible to sell newspapers in the snow, and Jack hadn't had much practice besides a few mornings shouting lies to help Spot or Angel sell their papers. But he'd done his best, and earned a few cents to give Cee for the trouble she’d taken. Hopefully, it would give her some incentive to keep them around for a bit longer.

“Where's Cee?” he asked Pete.

“Go away, Jack,” Pete said, not looking up. He was sitting in a corner with one of the girls in the lodging house. She was a nice black girl people called Laces.

“Hey, Laces,” Jack said. She looked up at him, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, Jack.”

“Where’s Cee?” he asked.

“Talking to Spot. Over there,” she replied, pointing.

“Thanks, Laces,” Jack said pointedly. Laces laughed, and Pete shot Jack a dirty look as he left them alone.

Spot and Cee were, sure enough, talking near the back of the lodging house. Jack gave Cee the money he'd earned that day and retreated, trying to stay close enough listen to their conversation.

“Spot, I sees where you comin’ from, I do. I just can't keep on hidin’ sixteen people for free.”

“It ain't for free, Cee, look. Jack’s workin’, Mite and Blue are workin’. That's thirty cents a day, on a bad day.”

“Rent is five cents a night, Spot. And that's sixteen girls that can't sleep here. The owner of this place is gonna figure us out sooner or later, and he knows as well as you does that I is runnin’ the place. Me and my girls is gonna be out on our asses. Sorry, Spot, but you gotta find somewhere else to keep your boys, cause you can't have ‘em here much longer.”

Jack, from a nearby top bunk, watched as Cee stood and left. Spot spoke.

“Hey, Jackie.”

“How you been, Spot?” Jack tried to climb down from the top bunk and fell onto the floor in front of an unimpressed Spot.

“Not great. Cee’s gonna kick us out.” Spot said conversationally.

“Ah. That ain't good,” Jack said from the floor.

“No,” Spot agreed.

“You want that I should go look for somewhere else to stay?” Jack offered.

Spot sighed and lowered himself to the floor to sit next to Jack. “Nah,” he said. “S’cold. The sun’ll set soon.”

“Yeah.”

They sat together, urgently aware of the cold and the hunger, but mutually unwilling to go out to get something to eat. The snow kept up all night. Spot fell asleep with a furrow in his brow. Jack fell asleep itching for a pencil to draw it.

Through some miracle of Spot’s, they found a warehouse in Brighton with space to fit a few skinny boys. It was harder for the three of them selling papers to do so, as they were much closer to Dill, but Spot assured them that this was the best place.

Nobody really questioned Spot, which Jack saw and marveled at. The kid was twelve- twelve! and already setting up to be Dill’s downfall.

They spent another couple of weeks in the warehouse, and slowly, they all went back to work. The amount of food they shared every night increased gradually as they made more money. Jack taught the younger boys how to steal better. Soon enough they were living relatively comfortably, despite a distinct lack of blankets and the constant dripping from holes in the roof.

A late January night found Jack trying to draw in the moonlight while avoiding the dripping water from the melting snow on the roof. He was largely unsuccessful, and was cursing the drop that had ruined the near perfect hand he'd been working on for so long when he felt someone trip over his leg.

He jerked upright, stuffing the paper under his blanket. “Who's there?” he whispered. “Spot?”

“Jack. Go back to sleep.” Spot got to his feet, brushing dust off himself. He was dressed to go out, bundled in a blanket and his shoes on.

“Where's you goin’?” Jack asked curiously.

“Noplace.”

“Liar.” Jack scrambled out from under his blanket. “Where's you goin’?”

Spot sighed. “Dill ain't been treating the younger kids right,” he said. “I been sneakin’ out to give ‘em what I can.”

Jack considered that. “Can I help?”

Spot looked surprised. “Sure. If you wanna.”

“Lemme get my coat.”

Spot had squirreled away a few cents and some scraps of food that day, and was on his way to give some out. He'd been doing this almost every night since they’d gotten to the girls lodging house, apparently.

“An’ not just to the kids at the lodgin’ house,” Spot added. “There is more lodgin’ houses in Brooklyn, and lots of places where kids that got no place else to sleep. Dill got people all over Brooklyn, but he don't tell them to care for none of those starvin’ kids. It ain't right.”

“Spot, is you plannin’ on bein’ king?” Jack blurted. If it weren't for the cold, Spot would've been stopped in his tracks.

“Nah,” he said, averting his gaze. “Where’s you hearin’ that?”

“Chuck told me you played Snaps,” Jack said, heart beating fast. “Tell the truth."

“Don't ask me for no truth, cause you won't get none,” Spot said curtly. “Fidge was the last person I _told the truth_ at.”

They finished their trip in silence. Jack thought, as he watched Spot give what he had to those kids, that Spot was probably far better suited for king than Dill was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's gays in this chapter :')

Slowly, as weeks passed, it seemed safer and safer to be out. Nonwhite kids were more confident and more numerous on the streets, and Spot’s group was soon selling where and when they pleased. “Them white kids can’t tell the difference between none of us anyway,” Spot said, with a hint of his old smile on the corner of his mouth. 

Spot’s group (Jack wondered when he'd started thinking of them as Spot’s) soon moved into a lodging house. Not the same one Dill lived in, not even close to it, but they took up space there, and Dill’s boy let them. 

Spot exerted his influence quietly. Nightly, he sent Jack out to deliver food and money to younger kids throughout the borough, and Jack knew he wasn't the only one. It wasn't long before Jack had moved back out of the lodging house, partly to continue working in Spot’s network, but mostly to better keep track of Spot’s reputation. If he hated the too small lodging house without moonlight or fresh air, that was no one's business but his own. He hadn't forgotten about Angel, or Santa Fe.

It was near the end of February when Jack could get away to see Angel again. Between keeping himself fed, doing as Spot directed, and keeping tabs on both Spot and Dill, Jack hardly got any time for himself anymore. 

He scaled the side of Angel’s apartment building, quite proficient in climbing buildings now, and knocked on the window. Carmen’s face appeared at the window. 

“Jack!” She opened the window and let him inside. “It's been a while!”

“Yeah.” Jack squinted around. “Where's Angel?”

“Working. He told us you said was unsafe selling newspapers, so Papa brought him to work at the factory.”

“ _ Factory?”  _ Jack frowned. “That's worse’n Dill’s boys.”

“Who's Dill?” Carmen asked. 

“No one. When’s Angel comin’ back?”

Carmen glanced at the wall. “Should be soon. Wanna see what’s dinner?”

Eagerly, Jack followed Carmen into the kitchen, where she let him taste the food and help her cook (“But go wash your hands first. I don't know what you been doing.”). One by one, Angel’s family trickled in and greeted Jack and Carmen happily, Angel and his father coming in last.

Jack was poking at the stir fry when someone barreled into him. “Jack!” Angel shouted in his ear. 

“Angel!” Jack yelled back, caught off guard. 

“It’s been weeks!” Angel was still clinging to him as Jack tried to regain his balance.

“I is back now!”

“I sees that, stupid.” There was no heat behind the words, the bright smile that had drawn Jack to him shining on Angel’s face. “Is you stayin’ for dinner?”

“Nah, I just wanted to let you know it's safe to be sellin’ again,” Jack said, enjoying being close to Angel too much to disentangle himself. 

“Stay,” Angel wheedled. 

“You may as well, Jack,” Carmen chimed in. “You haven't eaten all our food since Christmas.”

This won a laugh at Jack’s expense, and he relented eventually. Jack’s obligations seemed to melt away like snow in the sun whenever he was around Angel, and this was no exception. After dinner, Angel pulled Jack onto the fire escape with an armful of blankets and set them out like a nest. 

“So we can talk an’ also be warm,” he explained, busily arranging the blankets. Jack sat with a blanket wrapped around him and watched Angel bemusedly. 

“You's weird.”

Angel flashed a smile as he finally appeared to finish and settled down in his blankets. “So, uh… what happened with the rebellion?”

Jack sighed and inched closer to Angel, laying his head on Angel’s shoulder. He counted the losses first. “Dill’n his boys killed two kids. They kicked a bunch outta the lodgin’ house. There's at least five missin’. They’s all probably dead or run to the Bronx. Maybe still hidin’ but it's hard to survive by yourself in the winter.” Jack took a deep breath to keep himself from crying. “We is doin’ okay now though. Spot and Chuck is still watchin’ they step, but Dill’s lettin’ us be for now.” Jack hesitated, wondering if he was going to tell Angel about Spot’s power plays. He decided against it. 

“Who's gone?” Angel asked, and Jack was reminded that Angel knew these boys too. 

“Fidge and Snaps is dead for sure. Penny and Locks is gone, but them is all the names I know,” Jack said softly. 

Angel blinked furiously. A tear landed on the blanket in front of Jack’s face, but he pretended not to notice. 

“I is glad you’s safe, Jackie,” Angel said quietly. Jack didn't answer, closing his eyes and snuggling closer to Angel instead. 

“Tell me more about Santa Fe,” Jack said finally, unable to stand the silence any longer. Angel began telling long stories about the deserts of New Mexico and the low, breezy city of Santa Fe. Jack felt the cold in his bones sharper as he listened intently to descriptions of a home he'd never seen. 

“All clean and green and pretty,” Angel said, his eyes on Jack. Jack's eyes flickered open and Angel averted his gaze. 

“What about the people there?”

“Wanna hear about the cowboys?”

Jack immediately perked up. “Yeah!”

Angel grinned. “They's real, cowboys. Ain't none of them white, neither. They don't talk too much, but they ain't never alone when they comes into town.” Here Angel hesitated. “They- they’s always got arms around each other.”

“They's like family, huh?"

“No,” Angel blurted. Jack looked up at him, confused. 

“They, uh.” Angel looked up at the sky. “They's queer, mostly.”

The words slammed into Jack, making his mind ground to a halt. Queer. He knew what that was. Neighborhoods he used to wander into by accident. Girls kissing girls, boys kissing boys. Police officers arresting them. 

“And- and people lets them?” Jack asked carefully. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a little while longer. Neither of them quite knew what to say after that. Jack stared determinedly up at the sky, cloudy and empty of stars.

“You ever talk to them? The cowboys?” Jack asked.

“Sometimes.”

Silence.

“Was they nice?”

“Yeah,” Angel said after a long pause. “Real nice.”

“There's queers here, too,” Jack said unsurely. “I ain't never talked to one, but yeah. They's nice.”

“Yeah,” Angel said, and Jack looked up at him to see that Angel was staring down at him. 

Jack reached up, and he had no idea what he was expecting, but Angel met him halfway. It was clumsy. Their lips bumped together, dry and hardly for a second. Jack retreated and tucked himself to Angel’s side again, thinking that Angel could probably hear Jack’s heart beating. He could certainly hear Angel’s. 

“It's okay, right?”

Jack thought about it. It was illegal, it was blasphemy, it was wrong on every level. But it had felt as close and warm as Santa Fe, thousands of miles away. 

“It's okay.”

They didn't kiss again that night. Jack helped Angel bring the blankets inside and then took off to do his nightly errands.

But he didn't run. He wasn't running, not this time. Angel was his home base. Jack’s own Santa Fe. 

He returned the next day, and the next, and the next. Jack divided his time between Angel and Spot, between safety and those who depended on him. Jack could hardly believe he could have both. 

In the meantime, Spot was running his game slowly but surely. He'd slowly left the job of distributing food and money to the little street kids to Jack, and as Jack struggled to deal with it efficiently, he had little time to keep track of the power relationship between Spot and Dill. 

Jack couldn't help but think that this might've been on purpose. In theory, Jack had a good position. He rarely went hungry anymore. People answered to him, Brooklyn kids knew him. But he hardly spoke to Spot anymore, much less played with him or spent the day with him. Spot grew distant. He never seemed to have that clever little smile that Jack had grown so used to anymore.

The real world was difficult. But Jack always returned to Angel, and they’d go out and play, or they’d sit in Angel’s room and talk and kiss. When it got warm, Jack took Angel out for ice cream. 

Months passed like this, Spot increasingly reclusive. Jack was well off, which meant that Spot was better off, so Jack didn't worry himself. 

Spot’s birthday swung around again. The heat wasn't too bad this year, and not nearly as humid as usual. Jack set aside the day to celebrate Spot’s birthday, but it came and went without a peep. Jack sent a carefully written happy birthday letter, but he never got any answer. 

Walking around aimlessly the afternoon of Spot’s birthday, Jack didn't know what to do with himself. Angel was working, and Jack had cleared his own workday for someone who was apparently too busy to celebrate his own birthday. 

He remembered the celebration last year. The memory brought a smile to his face, and he realized it had been exactly a year since he met Angel. 

That had been a good day. 

With nothing to do, Jack spent the day like he used to, playing and stealing, mostly. He smiled at pretty girls and threw pebbles at passerby from the top of buildings. It was the first day in months that he really hadn't had anything to do. Somehow, it was far less satisfying than it used to be. Jack attributed it to the fact that all his friends were working, busy, or lived elsewhere. Brooklyn was a big place, and Jack’s friends were increasingly spread out. 

Supposedly, Santa Fe wasn't half as big as New York. Jack imagined living in that beautiful place where he knew and loved everyone, and he was known and loved back. 

What a dream.

Jack missed Angel, but he didn't visit him that day. Spot hadn't liked it when Jack chose Angel over him, and Jack felt like he owed it to Spot to pick him on his birthday, even if he never showed up. 

The cool breeze of autumn blew early that year, bringing in the stink from the river and an odd feeling of change. Jack barely saw Spot at all now, but strange whispers circulated in his absence. In contrast, Dill was said to be in public all the more, fingering his cane and glaring around. He was jumpy now that it was almost Christmas, the anniversary of the rebellion. Dill was nineteen now. Jack, for one, was sure Dill would be gone by the time the leaves were. 

In early October, Jack dropped by Spot’s lodging house. He’d gone to see Spot, but Spot was, predictably, out. Jack sat down with a group playing cards instead, sitting behind Pete and giving away his hand. 

“Ooh, that ain't good,” Jack said, resting his chin in his hands and staring at Pete’s cards. 

“Jack, shut up.”

“Jack, you could go ahead and keep talkin’,” Von said, grinning. 

Jack snorted and rested his chin on Pete’s shoulder, watching them play. 

“Where's Chuck?” he asked. 

“Over there. Go bother him.”

Jack grinned and patted Pete’s head as he left the table. Chuck was sitting alone on his bed, reading a book. 

“Hey, Chuck.” Jack sat down in front of him. Chuck looked up at him, a small smile on his face. 

“Long time no see,” he said.

“Yeah, s’been a while, huh?” Jack crossed his legs. “I been hearin’ things.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Chuck said mildly. 

“About Spot, I mean. Thirteen ain't much bigger’n twelve, and people is sayin’ he’s ready for another rebellion.”

Chuck’s expression flickered, but he remained silent. Jack kept pushing. 

“C’mon, Charlie,” Jack said quietly. “You knows the kids in this borough. They respects Spot, but they knows me. I is gonna find out.”

“Why is you askin’ me?” Chuck asked. “You's knowed Spot for longer that he's been takin’ on Dill. Ask him.”

“He don't see me no more. And far as I knows, you’s to him like you was to Snaps,” Jack answered steadily. 

Chuck’s eyes went up to Jack’s face, and Jack thought he had him. “Is I?” he asked finally, picking up his book. “I thinks you should ask him.”

Damn.

Jack spent the evening at the lodging house. He had fun seeing all his old friends again, but Spot never came back, and eventually Jack had to leave the lodging house for the night because he didn’t have the money to stay. He went to Angel’s with his collar up against the cold nighttime wind, still fuming over Spot clearly ignoring him.

Angel, as always, calmed him down and cheered him up. Jack had gotten taller than Angel (and, in fact, the rest of Angel’s family), and Angel, far from being annoyed about it, liked to lean on Jack and proclaim loudly Jack’s usefulness as a pillow.

“I swear, your shoulders is big as my whole bed,” Angel said, his head resting on Jack’s chest as they lay on the fire escape. Jack laughed.

“Don’t laugh. It’s true, you looks like you’s sixteen,” Angel said, popping up from where he lay across Jack. 

“Yeah, well, I’s still workin’ for a bratty little kid,” Jack said, only a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“You could beat Spot up,” Angel said, after giving Jack a critical once over. “You’s almost fifteen, yeah?”

“Yeah, why?” Jack asked, propping himself up on his elbow to face Angel.

“What does you wanna do on your birthday?” Angel asked.

Jack shrugged and wrapped his arms around Angel, using his own body weight to pull Angel down on top of him. “Missed you,” he said into Angel’s shoulder.

“I’s bein’ serious, Jack, come on,” Angel said, pushing himself up. Jack frowned at the lost contact.

“I wants you to lie on top of me,” Jack said, pouting up at Angel. Angel shoved at him halfheartedly, laughing.

“Come on. I wants you to get a good birthday,” Angel said.

“It’s fine, Angel,” Jack said, finally relenting. “I don’t want much.”

“I wanna give you much.” Angel lay down on Jack again, making Jack smile. He linked their fingers together.

“Thanks.”

They lay quietly together. It was a little cold out, but Jack couldn’t feel it.

“Think we could sleep out here tonight?” Angel asked.

“No,” Jack replied, although he sorely wanted to. “You’s always gettin’ sick.”

“You ain’t my mama,” Angel retorted with no heat behind his words. Jack grinned and shifted so he could kiss Angel, still a little hesitant after months and months of kissing Angel.

“That’s good,” he said quietly, breaking the kiss. Angel’s eyes were still closed when he responded.

“That ain’t always gonna work to get me to do what you want.”

“Always have,” Jack said, grinning cheekily.

Angel huffed and turned his head to bury it in Jack’s neck. Jack hugged Angel close, feeling like life could not possibly get better.

It felt like Jack hardly had time to blink before it was snowing again, and Christmas decorations were up. Tensions were running high between Dill’s people and Spot’s, and Jack was working harder than ever. Spot had visited with him for about five minutes, to tell him that he was now in charge of ensuring that the girls were with Spot. Jack had swallowed his growing resentment and agreed.

So Jack spent the day before Christmas handling Spot’s bullshit politics, the night before Christmas feeding kids all over Brooklyn, and knocked on Angel’s window on Christmas morning. The exhaustion melted out of him as he saw Angel’s smile, and as he was welcomed inside, Jack couldn’t help but think that yeah, this was home.

Presents were on the table all day, but nobody was allowed to touch them until after dinner. Jack’s first instinct was to steal his off the table, but Angel’s family was so happy with the idea of presents and surprises that Jack restrained himself.

It was just as wonderful as it had been the year before. Jack attached himself to Angel’s side, utterly unwilling to not be touching Angel in some capacity. Jack’s gift was three brand new colored pencils, and Jack nearly cried as he unwrapped them. 

That night, Jack couldn't sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been so full, and he'd eaten so much his stomach was hurting. Angel was tucked under Jack’s arm, his cheek resting against Jack’s shoulder. It was nice, except Angel’s arm was thrown over Jack’s bloated stomach and it was making Jack feel vaguely sick. 

“Angel,” Jack whispered. Someone in another bed snuffled. Carefully, Jack moved Angel’s arm off of his stomach and blew out a sigh of relief. Angel snorted as he was shifted, and his eyes fluttered open. 

“You leavin’?” he asked drowsy. “C’mere.” Angel reached up and kissed Jack sleepily. 

“I ain't leavin’, but thanks,” Jack murmured. Angel's eyes closed again as he smiled contently. 

“Good.”

Just for good measure, Jack pressed a kiss to the top of Angel’s head. He stared out the window as snow started to fall. He wondered how he'd ever been so lucky to get to be here, Angel pressed safe against him.

Jack fell asleep assured that things could only get better. 

1897 arrived with the uncomfortable peace that had ruled Brooklyn for a full year intact. The tension was palpable and stagnant, both Dill and Spot seemingly unwilling to take any concrete steps. 

This changed on the first day of spring. 

Jack had finished his work later than usual, and was sitting at the entrance of an alleyway eating a stolen bagel. Spot, making a rare appearance, trooped past with a group of boys following him. Jack shoved the last bite of food into his mouth and slipped out of the alley to tag behind them.

“That Jack?” Spot called, and abruptly the group of boys as old as sixteen realized Jack’s presence and parted for him. Jack caught up to Spot and walked to his right. They were heading back to the lodging house, which was only for boys who could pay, but nobody questioned Jack’s spot.

The moon was dark that night, and Jack was running over places to sleep in his head when Spot gestured to him as they arrived at the door of the lodging house. 

“Come on in, Jack,” Spot said, cocking his head. “Wanna talk to you.”

“For what?” Jack asked, cutting in front of a white boy who had to be twice his weight to enter the lodging house. 

“Got a letter from me mom,” Spot said, leading Jack further inside. “I just- I dunno. Want someone by me when I reads it, you know?"

Jack’s interest was piqued, mostly because he knew this was complete bullshit. Spot had told Jack a long time ago that his mother was dead.

“Yeah, sure, course,” Jack said, eying Spot curiously. Spot led them to a bed in the very corner of the room and sat down on it, kicking his shoes off and pulling a folded piece of paper. 

“Sit down, Jackie,” Spot said, a ghost of a smile crossing his face as he used the old nickname. Spot had changed a lot since the death of Fidge, and it was that familiar smile that got Jack to sit down and take the letter. Jack could practically feel Spot’s eyes boring into him as he unfolded the letter and began reading it. 

Jack realized immediately that it was not a letter from Spot’s mother. It was a single sentence, in Spot’s labored handwriting. 

_ i will be king of brooklyn and i want you to do it with me _

“So? You thinks she’ll do it?”

“Says down here she’ll meets you at the pier tomorrow,” Jack said neutrally. “I guess we gonna see then.”

The silence stretched between them, Spot’s dark brown eyes fixed on Jack’s. “Okay,” Spot said finally. “Thanks.”

Jack left the lodging house, head spinning. He’d known for a very long time that something was going to happen soon- hell, he spent all his time working towards that change, keeping kids fed when Dill ignored their suffering and keeping in touch with the girl leaders. But change was coming now, for certain. The fermented animosity that had been sitting without change in Brooklyn was finally yielding results.

Yesterday, if you’d asked Jack where he stood, he would’ve said Spot, without hesitation. Now that Spot had reached out to him, he wasn’t sure.

Of course, Jack’s feet carried him to Angel.

One look at Jack’s face apparently told Angel all he needed to know. Angel brought Jack up to the roof, and they sat side by side, legs kicking off the side of the building.

“So?” Angel asked finally.

“Spot’s plannin’ another rebellion,” Jack said. It felt good to say it. “He says he wants me to do it with him. I dunno what’s that means.”

“Does he got a second?” Angel said after a moment. “Maybe that’s what he’s askin’.”

“I dunno. I said to meet tomorrow, but I dunno if I’s goin’.”

Angel didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he looked at Jack, resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder. Jack turned to make eye contact with him, and their faces were an inch apart.

“Dill’s old now, yeah? His boys isn’t gonna still be workin’ for him in three years. Ain’t nobody ever seen a king last this long.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, wondering where Angel was going with this.

“Well, better Spot takes over than one of Dill’s boys,” Angel reasoned. “Right?”

Jack thought about it. “Yeah.”

“Go hear him out,” Angel said, turning his head to look out at the city and leaning against Jack. “Cause with what you been tellin’ me, something’s happenin’ with or without you.”

“You knows how to make a guy feel important,” Jack said dryly.

“Shut your dumb mouth,” Angel said, sounding amused.

“Shut it for me.”

“Fine, I will.” Angel reached up to kiss Jack. He got the same stunned, beautiful feeling every time.

“You’re so damn tall,” Angel grumbled. “Gotta stretch so far up.”

“Grow then,” Jack said unsympathetically. Angel hit his arm, making him laugh.

Jack didn’t spend that night at Angel’s, electing to sleep near the pier so he wouldn’t need to go far. Spot arrived the next morning with a bag of newspapers slung across his back. He didn’t exactly smile upon greeting Jack, but he didn’t have his usual half frown on, either.

“Ain’t you got people to sell for you?” Jack asked, trying to make conversation, as Spot wasn’t volunteering any information. It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

“Yeah, but I ain’t Dill,” Spot said. “I does my own work.”

Jack nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So. What’s you got to say about this rebellion?”

“It ain’t a rebellion, not really,” Spot said. “Dill’s grown. His time’s done. It shoulda been done already.”

“Bullshit,” Jack replied. “Dill should be pickin’ a second and leavin’, but he ain’t. It is a rebellion. S’fine to call it that.”

A smile ghosted across Spot’s face. “Yeah, I guess so,” he agreed. “Anyhow, you knows we been workin’ for this for a while.”

“Mm.”

“I wants you to be my second,” Spot said plainly. “You been runnin’ things real well around here. While I been worried about Dill’s people, you been doin’ all the things I meant to in the first place.”

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have so much people backin’ you up if you wasn’t helpin’ feed them,” Jack said, feeling mean. Spot had a lot of nerve, ignoring him for months and then coming and thanking him for his help.

Spot looked at him. “Feedin’ them kids is why I’s gonna be king in the first place,” he said. “Don’t you act like I’s like Dill.”

“Why don’t you tells me why you been ignorin’ me, and then I’ll tells you if you’s gettin’ my help,” Jack snapped.

The surprise was clear on Spot’s face. “I ain’t been ignorin’ you.”

Jack gaped at him. “You serious?” he asked. “I could count on one hand the amount of times we talked this much, in the whole year since the first rebellion.”

“We was both workin’, Jack,” Spot said, brow furrowed in confusion. “I was trustin’ that you knew what we was doin’ together.”

“Oh,” Jack said foolishly. “Well, you shoulda told me then.”

“Sorry.”

They walked in a vaguely awkward silence for a while.

“You wanna help or not?” Spot asked.

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

A rare smile broke over his face. “Good. I kinda missed your dumb ass.”

“Really? I ain’t miss you,” Jack said, earning himself a whack with the newspaper.

“Watch what you says. King, remember? I could have you  _ killed,” _ Spot said dramatically, with a look that would probably intimidate someone who wasn’t two feet taller than he was. “Pape, miss?” Spot added to a passing woman. She gave him an odd look and hurried by. Jack burst into laughter.

“Look at me, I looks like a nine year old newsie and I calls myself king,” Jack said, strutting ahead of Spot. “I threatens my only friend so’s I could look tough. Look at me-” He was interrupted by Spot swinging his bag of newspapers and hitting Jack in the face. For such a small person, Spot had a good arm, Jack thought as Spot chased him, brandishing his bag of papers.

Jack spent all day hanging around Spot, bothering him and selling a few of his newspapers. Spot pretended to be annoyed and threatened Jack a few times. Jack, once, in response, smacked Spot upside the head and told him very firmly that this behavior wouldn’t fly when he was king. It was a good day.

If Jack, later, had to pinpoint where his story in Brooklyn had started to end, he probably would’ve picked the moment when he decided to cement himself as Spot’s second.

The next few weeks was a flurry of activity that saw Jack and Spot practically glued together at the hip, working to ensure that the transfer of power went as smoothly as possible. Dill was finished, and the whole borough knew it. Of course, Jack found time whenever he could to visit Angel. This meant that Spot grew into the habit of showing up at Angel’s window to pull Jack away. 

Jack and Angel were fifteen years old, and they cared for each other far more deeply than either of them could express. Neither could even think of defining those feelings, or their relationship. They were, in essence, still children, unsure of how to navigate the depth or power of their love for each other. So, of course, they weren't good at taking the kinds of precautions they'd grow up to learn about. 

Jack and Angel sat on the fire escape as the moon rose, but neither of them could see it. Jack had pulled a sheet over their heads so he could lean down to kiss Angel, and once they'd started they didn't want to stop. 

Someone ripped the sheet away from them. Suddenly bared to the outside world, Jack reeled back, away from Angel. 

“What’s you doin’?” Spot asked, still holding the sheet.

It was night, but there was abruptly too much light, blinding Jack. He scrambled away from them, not daring to break eye contact with Spot. Something was ringing in his ears, drowning out Angel as he began to speak. 

Stumbling to his feet, Jack vaguely registered Spot and Angel arguing. Over what, he couldn't have told you on pain of death. 

He had to get out of there. Panic making his breath come fast, Jack climbed off of the fire escape and sprinted down the street, ignoring shouts of his name behind him. 

His feet pounded the pavement rhythmically, carrying him away from Angel and Spot, the two people he loved most in the world who'd become threats. Running away again. 

This was where Jack and Angel’s story ended for good.

Jack could still almost taste Angel on his lips when he arrived at the bridge, slowing to a walk as he crossed it. He was clearheaded now, albeit tired, and he knew he wasn't going back. Jack refused to even consider the possibility. He knew that made him a coward, but he didn't care. 

Brooklyn was over. 

Jack returned to Lower Manhattan. It was faintly familiar, and very unwelcoming. 

It was getting late. Ahead of him, he could see a crowd of people pouring out of a building- a theater, most likely. Jack was struck dumb as he saw a poster plastered to the front of it. He could read Medda Larkin’s name now.

Going unnoticed in a crowd wasn't easy now that he was as tall as many grown men, but as the crowd thinned out, Jack managed to slip inside. The curtain was closed, and someone was playing piano as people filtered out of the theater. 

God, Jack knew this place like the back of his hand. 

He crept up to the seats on the upper level to wait for the theater to empty. Soon enough, the curtains were drawn aside, and the tired performers came out in their regular clothes to get a drink and bid each other good night. Jack watched with his chin resting in his hand, thinking distantly that he ought to leave. 

Jack didn't leave. It wasn't long before someone caught sight of him, though, and he swore under his breath and tried to sneak out before he heard, for the first time in two years, Medda Larkin’s voice.

“Hey! What you doing in here!” she shouted. “Get down here!”

She was yelling at him, but it was the sweetest sound he'd heard all night. 

Jack came down, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. “Hey, Miss Medda,” he said.

Medda’s expression cycled very rapidly through confusion, recognition, shock, relief, anger, and finally to something that Jack did not recognize. 

“Jack,” she breathed. 

Jack burst into tears. He rushed forward to throw his arms around her, and she hugged him back tightly as he sobbed. Medda let him stay like that, crying and clinging to her and probably ruining her dress. Finally, Jack had nothing left and he stepped back, rubbing the tears from his eyes. 

“Where you been, Jack Kelly?” Medda asked softly. “I swear I thought you died.”

“I ain’t dead.”

“I see that!” Medda took a breath, and then another. “You've grown up.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, staring down at his feet. “Sorry I left without sayin’ bye.”

“Why'd you leave in the first place?” she asked him. “Where'd you go?”

“Saw Snyder in here. At a performance,” Jack said, feeling like he was forcing the words out. 

“Who’s that?” Medda asked.

“Runs the Refuge,” Jack said. “I went to Brooklyn. I been there ever since.”

“You look near dead of tiredness,” Medda said after a long minute. “Sleep in the theater tonight, okay?”

“Thank you, Miss Medda,” Jack said. Medda hugged him again, and he closed his eyes.

“I’m glad you're home,” Medda said gently. 

Jack didn't respond. He didn't have a home in the city. 

Medda let Jack stay in her theater for a couple nights as he gathered himself. It was practically muscle memory now, starting over. Jack figured it wasn’t a big deal. As soon as he had the money, he was buying a ticket to Santa Fe, the place of love and beauty and cowboys.

On the third day, Jack used the leftover cash he had to go out and buy ten newspapers. It wasn’t much, not at all, but he had a penny left over to buy himself a morsel of food in case he couldn’t sell the papers.

As it turned out, he sold all ten papers within a half hour of buying them. Jack walked around for a while jangling his eleven cents in his pocket, feeling unbelievably rich. He never had this much money to spend for himself.

Jack started selling newspapers every day, and soon enough he was buying between a hundred and a hundred fifty of them every morning. It was lucrative (at least by Jack’s standards), especially considering that he wasn’t bothering to stay at a lodging house.

He was keeping to himself, mostly. Spot had said himself that he had Brooklyn people in every borough, and Jack had no idea what the reaction had been to his flight. He didn’t talk to anybody but Medda, and tried to be satisfied with that. But fortunately or not, Jack wasn’t someone who was happy without people to talk to and touch and laugh with. It wasn’t long before an Asian boy with a cigar hanging out of his mouth invited Jack to play cards with a few of the Manhattan newsies, and it wasn’t long after that that Jack accepted.

The boy introduced himself as Racetrack, which was when Jack started to think this had maybe been a bad idea.

“Where you from?” Racetrack asked as he sat at the table, pulling Jack down to sit next to him.

“Uh, round here,” Jack said. It wasn’t really a lie. “Just started sellin’.”

Racetrack scrutinized him. “Okay.” Racetrack turned to introduce him to the three other boys sitting with them. “This is Blink, Mush, and Specs,” he said. “And this is Jack.”

“Hey,” Jack said, grinning at them. 

They played cards until night fell. The boys he was playing with bet stupid things, like pebbles and shoelaces that had frayed all the way through, of which Jack had neither. Still, after only an afternoon with the Manhattan newsboys, Jack could see the difference. He missed Brooklyn, but the street kids there were more serious and far more aggressive. It was nice to play a friendly game with people who didn’t take things seriously, either. Jack was willing to bet the politics in Manhattan were simpler and less violent, too.

The game ended when the owner of the lodging house came out and demanded the night’s rent. Racetrack winced and dropped his cards.

“Nice playin’ with you boys,” he said. “Gotta go.” He clapped Jack on the back and left the table, clearly trying to make his way to the door without being seen.

“Higgins! Hey, Higgins, I see you! Get back here!”

Racetrack froze halfway out the door. Blink and Specs were laughing openly at him, and Mush looked like he was trying not to.

“What-” Jack looked at the others for some explanation.

“Every night, Race tries to stiff the old man outta rent,” Mush said, leaning back in his seat. “Never works, but he tries.”

“Hey, Johnny,” Racetrack said, feigning nonchalance. “How’s it goin’?”

“Five cents, boy,” the man said sternly.

“Hey, hey, look.” Racetrack pulled his cigar out of his pocket. “How’s about I gives you this, and we calls it even?”

“You been chewing on that for three days,” the man said, unimpressed. “Five cents or no bed.”

“Aw, come on-”

“Higgins, every morning I wake you boys up so you can sell your papers,” the man sighed. “What do you do all day?”

“I picks up girls,” Racetrack said, sticking the cigar in his mouth. He missed at first, and left a smudge on the corner of his mouth.

The man stared at him. “Five cents.”

Racetrack huffed and fished the money out of his pocket. “I thinks you just hate the Chinese.”

The man rolled his eyes, pocketing the money. “I never have to run this routine with the rest of the boys here, you know.” 

Racetrack returned to the table, shaking his head. “Some folks don’t treat kids right,” he said disapprovingly.

“Do he hate the Chinese?” Jack asked, at a complete loss for anything intelligent to say.

Race shrugged, removing the cigar from his mouth. “I dunno. I’m white.”

Jack stared at him, and then looked at the other boys. Mush shrugged, and Specs started dealing the cards for another round.

For all of Racetrack’s admittedly hilarious bullshit, Jack ended up sticking with those boys. The next morning, Jack walked through the gates at the World with a whole courtyard of friends awaiting him.

Jack had his arm slung around Racetrack’s shoulder, mostly to rub in Race’s shortness, and Mush had taken one look at Jack and Racetrack’s matching broad grins and groaned. “Race’s found his new best friend,” Mush complained to Blink.

“That ain’t an issue, Mush, you wasn’t his best friend to start with,” Blink said, looking vaguely offended.

“Yeah, I know, but look at them. They’s gonna be a pain in my-”

“Sorry I’s late!” someone shouted. Jack found himself swung around by Racetrack’s short, surprisingly powerful frame to face a boy limping over to them. “Wiesel out yet?” He was black, had a round face, bright eyes, and a crutch under his arm.

“Hey, Crutchie! Nah, weaselface ain’t out,” Race said cheerfully. “This is Jack. He ain’t as annoyin’ as Mush here, so I thinks you gonna like him.”

Mush made an indignant noise, and Crutchie laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He had dimples. “Nice to meetcha, Jack,” he said.

“You, too,” Jack said.

They bought their papers- Race tried to swindle Wiesel out of an extra twenty papers- and then scattered. Jack, after a few weeks, had this thing down to an art. It was a simple matter of switching spots every day, so nobody got too used to him spouting lies. The lies, too, had to be done right. Jack skimmed the paper every morning, finding the most interesting tidbits and sensationalizing them. Nothing too outrageous, nothing like he’d done with Angel-

Jack cut off his train of thought there. He was very determinedly not thinking about Angel.

Later in the day, when Jack was almost finished selling all his papers, he had ended up almost near the park. It was a sunny day, mid spring, and he saw Crutchie sitting on a bench by the entrance with his stack of newspapers on his lap. Jack loped over and sat down beside him.

“Crutchie, right?” Jack asked, although he knew perfectly well his name.

Crutchie smiled at him. “Yeah. Race’s adopted you, eh?”

Jack was unpleasantly reminded of the last time someone adopted him. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, forcing a grin. “He do that a lot?”

“You kiddin’?” Crutchie asked, laughing. “Last one he  _ adopted  _ was Titch.” Titch, king of Lower Manhattan. Nice boy, shrewd but irresponsible. At least, according to Spot.

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “F’real?” he asked. “Huh."

“Yeah. Pape, miss?” Crutchie asked as a young woman passed. She gave him a penny and a wink for her paper. Jack nudged Crutchie, a grin on his face as Crutchie stared after her.

“Go after her. C’mon, she was pretty,” Jack wheedled, poking at Crutchie. “Go, before she gets away.”

“Stop it, Jack. Stop!” Crutchie said, trying not to laugh. Jack finally flopped back, still unnecessarily close to Crutchie.

“What, you gots a girl?” Jack asked.

“Nah, but I ain’t gonna get one just cause a girl smiled at me when she bought a pape. Anyhow, she was white,” Crutchie said, shaking his head. He still had that smile, letting Jack admire his dimples. “You’s an idiot, Jack, no wonder Race likes you.”

“You’s mean,” Jack said after a moment.

“Everyone is always so surprised,” Crutchie said, laughing. “But why you think Race likes me?”

Jack burst out laughing, nearly spilling his bag of newspapers. He decided right then that even if he didn’t like the rest of the boys, Crutchie was worth being in their group for.

Not that the rest of them were unlikable. It was a much faster paced group of people, all of them lighthearted and laughing. Jack had forgotten what these Manhattan boys were like.

Titch dropped by the lodging house every so often. Jack was thankful that Spot had never brought him along to those goddamn meetings he insisted on having, because Jack got the feeling that Titch, although airheaded, was not stupid. The first time he met him, Jack wasn’t totally sure Titch didn’t know exactly who he was.

It was nearly summer when Jack first met Titch. He was playing cards with the boys at the lodging house. Crutchie was there and distracting everyone by making fun of them and shaking the table. Race, seated beside Jack, snapped his head up like a dog. 

“Is Titch comin’ today?” he asked.

“Yeah, think so. Why?” Romeo asked, concentrating on his cards. Romeo was perhaps the worst player any of them had ever seen, even worse than Jack. 

Almost immediately after Romeo finished speaking, the door opened. Racetrack ducked under the table, knocking Jack’s cards out of his hands. 

“Hey, Titch,” Blink said, apparently unfazed. 

A tall boy- Titch, Jack assumed- walked over to them. “Just checkin’ in.” His voice had a vaguely southern lilt to it. 

“Does Race owe you money?” Crutchie asked. 

Titch raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” Crutchie said innocently. Jack hid his grin behind his cards. 

“Ow!” Race shouted from under the table. “Crutch, Jesus!”

Titch, looking incredulous, squatted to see Racetrack hiding from him. “You still owe me near a dollar,” he said. 

“Yeah, I know,” Race said grumpily. “Lemme alone. I is a workin’ boy.”

Snorting, Titch straightened up. “And who're you?” he asked, directing the question at Jack. 

“Jack. I’s new round here,” Jack said

Titch looked at him oddly, but said nothing more to him. “Anyhow, I just came by to see if yous all heard. Brooklyn ain't Dill’s no more.”

“Yeah?” Crutchie said interestedly. “Whose then?”

“Spot Conlon,” Jack answered, almost reflexively. Six heads swung around to look at him. 

“Thought you was new,” Titch said.

Jack shrugged.

“Well, yeah, it’s Spot Conlon,” Titch went on. “Play nice with them Brooklyn boys for a bit, til I gets me a sense of the little king.”

“I heard he was only ten,” Race said, coming out from under the table. Jack put a hand on the top of his head and pushed him back down. Racetrack popped right back up again, giving him a dirty look. 

“Naw, he only looks it,” Titch said. “He's thirteen.”

Crutchie whistled. “Thirteen and already king, huh? And people says he was behind Snaps a coupla years ago.”

“Hey, we’s playin’ cards here,” Jack interjected, intensely uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

“Have fun with this crook,” Titch said, slapping the back of Race’s head. “And good to meetcha, Jack.”

Jack grunted and Titch left them alone, letting Jack relax. Race clambered onto his chair, looking disgruntled.

“Y’know, I hates Titch,” Race muttered. “Who looked at my cards?” Crutchie pointed at Romeo, who threw down his cards in frustration.

“How’m I gonna win if you sells me out, huh?” Romeo demanded.

“You won’t. That’s the point, Romeo,” Crutchie said, laughing. He leaned over to drape himself across Romeo’s shoulders. Romeo still looked a little annoyed, but he nestled back into Crutchie.

Jack sat playing with them for a little while longer, but Titch stayed in the lodging house. Eventually, it made Jack too nervous to stay, and he said goodbye and left.

Jack made it a point to avoid Titch after that. He hadn’t liked the way Titch was looking at him, and maybe it was just Jack’s low lying paranoia- someone was always waiting to drag him back- but it had kept him safe for years. Relatively safe, anyway.

Oh, well. He could avoid Titch with Race.

Race was possibly the funniest person Jack had ever met. He had this weird manic energy and a sense of humor that made no sense at all, and he always had a cigar in his mouth even though he absolutely could not afford to keep buying cigars. Race was always running off in the morning with his papers doing God knew what, but he and Jack spent nearly every afternoon together.

It was the summer again. Race was lying all over Jack even though it was too hot and sticky for such things. Mush, despite being the sweetest person Jack knew, was the worst complainer he’d ever met, and would not stop whining about the humidity.

“Mush, you keep talkin’ and I’ll soak you,” Race said sleepily from on top of Jack. People liked to lie on top of Jack, and Jack had no idea why, but he liked it.

“I is already soaked,” Mush fumed. “From sweat.”

Crutchie let out a bark of laughter. “Swear to God, Mush.”

“We should go gets ice cream,” Jack said. They were lying around on the roof of the lodging house, trying to catch a breeze that wasn’t there.

“You got cash?” Blink asked. Jack lifted his head, knocking into Race’s elbow.

“Mister Blink, I sold one hundred seventy eight papes today,” Jack said, very sternly. Racetrack fell off of him.

“One hundred seventy eight?”

“Yeah. Got two left over. But I got near two dollars now.” Jack sat up.

“How you manage that?” Crutchie asked, gaping in what looked like genuine shock. In fact, everyone was staring at him, their mouths hanging open.

Jack looked around. “Why’s you all lookin’ so surprised?” he asked.

“I ain’t never heard of no newsie sold a hundred eighty papes in a day,” Race said, rolling his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “That’s impressive, that is.”

Jack felt himself grin. “Yeah, I knows,” he said. “Took me hours!”

“Takes me hours to sell fifty papes,” Race said, still marveling.

“Takes you hours to get into debt down at Sheepshead,” Crutchie said.

“So is you gonna buy us ice cream?” asked Blink, cutting off Race before he opened his mouth.

A dollar and seventy eight cents was a lot of money. Jack had thought, maybe, he’d take the three or four cents he needed for food that day and then put the rest away. Save up. He’d checked the price of a ticket to Santa Fe, and it was ten dollars out to Virginia. Jack figured that he’d need maybe another dollar on the way for food. He wasn’t sure if it was a straight shot from North Carolina to New Mexico, but if it was, that was another ten dollars. Plus food costs. Then he’d need money to tide him over in Santa Fe while he got his bearings. That sounded like the very least twenty five dollars. Two dollars was a sizable chunk out of that.

But these were his friends. They made, on average, sixty cents a day, and for someone to bring in almost two dollars was like striking gold. And Mush looked like he was about to pass out.

“All right,” Jack relented. “Let’s go.”

All four boys began to cheer, and with the exception of Crutchie, jumped up and began climbing down from the roof as fast as they could. Crutchie, half grimacing, got to his feet.

“You want that I should help you down?” he asked Crutchie. 

Crutchie blew out a sigh. “Would you?” he asked. “Usually I gets down meself, but the leg’s bad today.”

Jack glanced down at Crutchie’s twisted leg. “What happened?” he asked. He helped Crutchie down the ladder.

“Got sick,” Crutchie said. “Kinda sick that fucks up your legs, y’know.” Crutchie carefully lowered himself onto the ground, Jack beneath him to ease the way. 

“Yeah,” Jack said, handing him back his crutch. Crutchie resituated it under his arm and grinned at the other boys. 

“Let's go!”

Ice cream cost two cents, apiece. Five of them was ten whole cents, which Jack was absolutely not spending on one day. Instead, he bought two, one for Mush, Blink, and Crutchie to share, and one for himself and Racetrack. 

“Because Race got cooties,” was his reasoning. “I is protectin’ you three.”

Race stuck out his vanilla stained tongue at Jack as the others laughed.

The summer passed warm and happy. Jack was fast friends with all the boys in Race’s lodging house, Crutchie especially. He spent those months trying to save up for a train ticket, but saving up was much harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d put away a few dollars, and then his shirt would get stolen, or his shoes would wear through, or someone would take it, or a kid would need to pay rent, or, at one point, Mush would get sick and need medicine. There was always something that would drain away his funds, leaving Jack trapped and broke again.

So autumn came, and Jack had a dollar and ninety eight cents to his name. The first snow of the year came in October, signaling that a difficult winter was ahead of them. Rent had been raised to six cents a night, but the coat Angel had given him two years before was almost completely destroyed. Reluctantly, Jack took up residence in the lodging house, and spent his first night staring out the window at the falling snow.

Not a moment too soon. The days following that night were viciously cold. Jack shouted his headlines with chattering teeth, and scraped together hardly fifty cents a day. Others weren't so lucky.

The previous winter, in Brooklyn, had seen Jack working in a group of people to care for kids who couldn't take care of themselves. The winters before that, Jack had been loose, concentrating on getting enough food and a roof. Never in his life had Jack been in a lodging house full of cold, broke, starving kids with nobody caring for them during winter. 

Every day, the lodging house got emptier as kids couldn't cough up rent and were kicked out. November came with fresh snowfall and freezing winds. Jack saw children with purple lips and nails begging on the same corners they used to sell on. 

“Hey, Jackie.”

Jack knew who it was before he turned around. 

“Hey, Race. How you been?” 

Race shrugged, grinning past chattering teeth. “Okay. Could use hot chocolate.”

“Me too.” Jack exhaled shakily, trying to retain some warmth. “You want a few papes?”

“Oh my damn God, Jack, do I,” Race said, relieved. “Just six, is fine, I can go without dinner tonight.”

“Take ten,” Jack said, frowning. “You gotta eat, Race.”

“C’mon. I gone without food. So’ve you. Gimme six, and.” Race put a shaking hand in his pocket and pulled out his cigar. “I’ll be on me way.”

After a moment of deliberation, Jack pulled seven out of his bag. “Here,” he said. “Good luck, Race.”

“Cheerio,” Race said in an affected voice, tipping his hat. With that, he left Jack alone, waving a paper in the air.

After that, it was all too obvious how many people didn't have anyone to spot them a few papers. Jack kept walking around, calling out exaggerated headlines halfheartedly, but he couldn’t block out the sight of all those kids, starving and penniless.

Jack, with some difficulty, finished selling his papers. Then, heart beating in his throat, he went back to look for the street kids who had nothing, and gave six cents to as many as he could. “Buy yourself food, or a night at the lodgin’ house, whatever,” he said, what had to be ten times or more. By the end of the day, Jack was left with a penny, thirty nine cents less than what he’d had that morning. But he had around a dollar saved up, and that was more than many. 

Jack began walking back to the lodging house, feeling the snow soak into his cheap soles. Ahead of him, he saw a store, the door hanging open and two men arguing outside of it. 

He made up his mind in a second. Cautiously, he slipped into the store, invisible to both men in their anger. Racks and racks of dried food, shelves full of things Jack couldn't afford on the best of days. 

Mouth already watering, Jack moved swiftly through the aisles, stuffing his clothes full of as much food as he could. He was suddenly very glad he still had that old, torn up coat on him. 

The bell clanged, and Jack froze.

The man who owned the store, still red faced, slouched behind the counter. He looked up and saw Jack, eyes narrowing in immediate distrust. 

“This ain't a colored store,” he said. 

“Just wanted some candy,” Jack said, praying his voice didn't betray his nervousness. He plucked a piece of candy and set it on the counter, pulling his last, precious penny out of his pocket. 

The man eyed him and took the penny, although it was twice the cost of one piece of candy.

“Get out, then, ‘fore I change my mind,” he grunted. 

Jack left, the candy in his sweaty hand and feeling ten pounds heavier with stolen food. He walked the whole way to the lodging house, fearing that the food would fall out if he ran. 

“Hey, Jackie!” Crutchie said cheerfully as he walked in. He had his leg up and a blanket covering him. The winter didn't do him well, but he maintained his sunny disposition better than Jack ever had. 

“Hey, Crutchie,” Jack said. He came over to the table where Crutchie was seated, and began dumping the stolen food onto the table.

With every handful, Crutchie’s eyes grew wider, and more boys gathered around him. When he was finally done, Jack could hardly believe himself that he'd taken all of it. It had to be two dollars’ worth of food. 

“Where,” Crutchie breathed, “did you get all that?”

“Santa,” Jack replied. “Dig in, boys.”

The residents of the lodging house fell on the food hungrily, Jack included. God, it felt good to eat with something like a family. 

With great difficulty, Jack stopped them after a little more than half the food had been eaten. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Enough. We ain't the only people in the city, and winter don't end tomorrow. We’s savin’ the rest of this, y’hear?” 

The others agreed reluctantly, and eventually the crowd around the table had dispersed. Jack tucked the food, much less of it this time, back into his ratty old jacket. Carefully, he hid it in his bedclothes. 

“You stole all that?” Crutchie asked. 

“Yeah.” Jack arranged himself to rest comfortably against Crutchie’s shoulder. “S’been a long day, Crutchie.”

“You ain't the only one,” Crutchie said. Jack splayed his hand over Crutchie’s. He liked the way it looked, his light brown against Crutchie's dark brown. 

“You okay?” Jack said softly. 

“This nasty weather, you know, with the wet and cold. Makes my leg hurt,” Crutchie said. He exhaled, and Jack felt it against the back of his neck. “Glad you’s back, though.”

“Any way I can help?” Jack asked, although to move from this position was the last thing he wanted to do.

Crutchie hesitated, and Jack looked back at him. “Tell me, c’mon.”

“It helps, sometimes, when- when someone rubs it,” Crutchie said haltingly. “You don't gotta, though, it's real nasty lookin’-”

“Nah.” Jack sat up and pushed the blanket aside, helping Crutchie roll up his pant leg. “Whatever helps.”

It wasn't exactly pretty, Crutchie’s leg, but Jack did exactly as Crutchie directed him. Crutchie’s eyes drooped shut as he gave a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you, Jack,” he said. 

“Yeah.” They were quiet, Jack focusing on the repetitive movement of his hands.

“Race dropped by earlier,” Crutchie said, his eyes still closed. 

“Yeah? He gonna be back tonight?” Jack asked. 

“Man, I hope so,” Crutchie said ruefully. “He gone down to Sheepshead.”

“Race is so dumb,” Jack said, sighing. “I gave him that money!”

Crutchie laughed softly. “I know you did. Rookie mistake, Jackie boy.”

But soon enough, Race did come back, the grin on his face face brighter than the quarter he was flipping. “I never lose!” he said smugly, parking himself right by where Jack and Crutchie were still sitting together, faces close.

“I does,” Crutchie said, feigning embarrassment. “I bet you was gonna come back five dollars in debt.”

Race glared. “It’s Jack,” he said dramatically. “He been turnin’ you all against me!”

“You don’t need my help with that,” Jack said. “I got you dinner, by the way, but I sees you don’t need it.”

“I is gonna treat myself,” Race declared. If he hadn’t put his feet into Jack’s lap, Jack would’ve thought he was ignoring what Jack had just said. “A brand new pair of boots.”

Jack grunted in response, and Crutchie laughed.

“But, uh-” Race leaned forward. “What’s that I heard about dinner?”

Crutchie laughed harder, and Jack made a face as he extracted himself from the pile of newsboys to head to his bunk and pull out his package of food.

“Just a little, mind,” Jack said, letting Race take enough for a meal. “Ain’t anyone takin’ care of kids here?”

Race shrugged, stuffing dried fruit into his mouth. “People tries,” he said. “But no one’s ever king for longer’n a few months. S’hard to set anything up.” Jack had known Manhattan was fragile, politically. It wasn’t bloody, not like Brooklyn or the Bronx, but Manhattan kids were flighty. Just the type to hop a train to Santa Fe, and never look back. 

“So every winter, it gets like this?” Jack asked.

Race looked at him oddly. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought you was from here.”

“I ain’t never lived like this.” Jack gestured around the lodging house. “It’s different in Brooklyn.”

Race shuddered, shaking his head. “Kids kill to be king in Brooklyn,” Crutchie said disgustedly. “S’ugly. I take Manhattan over that any day.”

“I heard Spot Conlon carries around the cane Dill used to,” Race said, eyes lighting up with gossip. “Heard he beat him to death with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Spot Conlon,” Jack muttered. “He ain’t beat no one to death.”

“You knew him?” Race asked excitedly.

“Nah. But he’s what, twelve? Even Brooklyn ain’t that rough,” Jack said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I was you,” Race said. “I goes to Sheepshead every week. They’s rough, them Brooklyn kids.”

“He says that ‘cause he’s still scared of the old queen,” Crutchie teased. “She ain’t been around for four years!”

“She was scary!” Race defended himself. “She probably woulda beat you up, too!”

“Nah. I got me a smile that spreads like butter,” Crutchie said, smiling beatifically.

Jack burst out laughing. “That you does, Crutch,” he said.

“You all enable him,” Race said disapprovingly. “Goes around thinkin’ he’s an angel.”

“He’s right,” Jack pointed out.

“Yeah, but an asshole one!” Race said indignantly. Both Jack and Crutchie laughed.

Everyone in the lodging house that night went to sleep full. But old habits die hard, and Jack lay in bed arguing with himself late into the night.

That story was done, the one full of politics and nighttime forays into neighborhoods he didn’t know. Jack was done with power plays. He wasn’t Jack, Spot’s right hand man. He was Jack, newsboy, best friend to Race and Crutchie. 

But eventually, Jack realized it wasn’t any kind of contest. The stories changed, the background and the characters and the names, but Jack couldn’t stand the suffering of people around him, not any more than when he’d been tiny and shaking and scared and hearing the word suicide for the first time.

Jack ran on the city streets, cold winter wind making his ears numb. He remembered that he loved the taste of the air as he raced through it, and he longed for a place where he’d finally taste freedom. He had no home, he realized that now, no matter how sweet it had been to be with Angel, no matter how sweet it was to be with Crutchie. Sooner or later, that part of his life would end, the book would close, and Jack would draw himself up a new self. Nothing was permanent.

Somehow, even as Jack spent all night breaking into stores and hauling the loot to hiding places, even as he became a felon at the age of fifteen, even as he effectively gave up any practical chance of leaving the city- Jack could not let go of that dream of free endless deserts.

Nothing was permanent, but Jack let himself believe that he had a permanent home somewhere. It wasn't like he'd ever make it there, so what did it matter?


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Jack sold fifty papers, and then spent the rest of his time distributing food, money, and clothing to the kids in Manhattan. There were far fewer of them than there were in Brooklyn, so it was a comparatively easy job, but in Brooklyn, Jack had had Spot and all his manpower behind him. In Manhattan, Jack had no backup. But Jack persevered, for months of brutal winter. 

Jack, in late November, found himself at Medda’s theater. He hadn't visited in so long, having been busy with stealing and covering up the stealing and handing out stolen goods. He missed her. 

No one was inside when he entered. A huge canvas was set up onstage, paints lying around it. Jaw hanging open, Jack stepped forward almost reverently. A scene was half painted, an ocean, deep blues and greens contrasted with a vibrant setting sun. Or, at least, what Jack envisioned to be a vibrant setting sun. It was only sketched out. 

“Jack Kelly!” a familiar voice called, and Jack’s face split in a grin as he turned to greet Medda. 

“Miss Medda! Lookin’ as radiant as ever,” Jack said, tipping his hat to her. 

“You flatterer, boy,” Medda said affectionately, hugging him. “How you been? Winter treating you all right? I know you’re eating, you're taller than me.”

“I’s doin’ great, Miss Medda,” Jack said, smiling. “What’s that?”

Medda’s face fell as she looked at the half completed artwork. “Our painter skipped town, if you'd believe it,” she said, distressed. “We’ve got a show tonight, and no backdrop.”

“I could do it for you,” Jack offered. 

Medda looked at him. “You sure, honey?” she asked. “I know you're talented, but you've got things to do.”

“Yeah, ‘course I will. Anythin’ for you,” Jack said cheerfully.

“If you insist,” Medda said, a smile growing on her face. “Go ahead.”

Jack had never painted, and he’d owned five colored pencils in his life. But all he did with those pencils was shade them over each other, learning the colors and creating tiny landscapes in the margins of newspapers and flyers. So when he came to a canvas, with all the paint colors he could ever want, Jack was in his element.

The backdrop was finished in time for the performance, and Jack went back to the lodging house happier than he'd been in a while. 

Jack went back to Medda’s theater and painted for her often after that. She always tried to pay him, and he always refused. 

“Really, Miss Medda, I ain't gonna take your money for somethin’ I’d pay to do,” he told her. She looked from him to his brush to the canvas- a nearly complete image of a desert under a rising moon- and back at him, her eyes a little glassy.

“Sure, honey,” Medda told him. “Come as often as you like.”

Jack put a little bit of that faraway home into every scene he painted for Medda. He’d never make it there, but he could recreate it a million times on canvas.

Jack spent a lot of time in Medda’s theater, dreaming after something he'd never get, and it only made him feel all the guiltier when he left to give to the kids of Manhattan. 

Most days, it was already dark when Jack returned to the lodging house. Race, distracted asshole that he was, never much seemed to mind, and was always willing to engage in Jack’s touchy friendliness and fool around. Crutchie, on the other hand, received Jack with worried eyes and a twist to his mouth that was a great distance from his usual smile. 

“What you been doin’ lately, huh?” Crutchie asked as Jack returned hours past dark, two days before Christmas. 

“Whaddaya mean?” Jack said breathlessly, taking off his cap and brushing the snow off his clothes. He sprawled himself on Crutchie’s bed, grinning crookedly up at him. Crutchie shifted to look at him better, still not smiling. 

“Kids is talkin’ about someone comin’ round handin’ out food and clothes,” Crutchie said. “They says he calls himself Jack and he says he brung Santa’s haul.”

“Well, damn, Crutchie, who is it?” Jack asked. “You's killin’ me.”

“Don't play,” Crutchie said, slapping Jack’s broad shoulder gently. “Where's you gettin’ all that stuff?”

“Santa.”

“Jack-”

“Well, what is I supposed to say?” Jack asked, trying hard to stay lighthearted. “Less people know about where I gets it, the better. Christmas is comin’.”

Crutchie sighed, looking conflicted. Jack shifted to lay his head in Crutchie’s lap, and Crutchie played with Jack’s hair absentmindedly. “C’mon,” Jack said, catching Crutchie’s hand. “Leave it alone, yeah? My birthday’s comin’ up.”

Crutchie’s face immediately brightened. “Yeah?” he said, and Jack privately thanked God that Crutchie had stopped asking. “When?”

Jack paused. “Well, I dunno when. But I know it's near the end of December, so I calls it Christmas. I is sixteen this year.”

“I is gonna get you the best present you ever saw,” Crutchie said decisively. Jack laughed delightedly. 

“Yeah? What?”

“A little baby bottle,” Crutchie said, grinning. “I turned sixteen September twenty nine.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jack said, laughing. “Why didn't you say anythin’?”

Crutchie shrugged. “I got enough,” he said simply.

Jack wondered what it was like to not to be entirely wrapped up in wanting more, more, always more.

The next day, Jack noticed that his stores of food and clothing were running low. He'd have to steal more that night, which would be a distasteful chore on Christmas Eve. But he did anyway, leaving the warmth and happiness of the lodging house that night and searching the city for someplace he hadn't robbed yet. 

Jack did his work and then left the store, on his way to hide it with the rest of the things he'd stolen. 

“Hey!”

Shit.

Jack took off running, clutching the stolen clothing tightly to his chest. Clothing was important, would keep kids from freezing as surely as a night in the lodging house, but he couldn't give everyone winter’s rent. Clothes was the second best thing. And now, a police officer was chasing after him, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Jack swerved sharply, intending to circle around and lose his pursuer. He ran directly into another police officer. 

The officer took a moment to realize what was going, with the shouts of the other one and the pile of clothes in Jack’s arms. Jack was bigger than this guy, and probably stronger, but Jack wasn't looking to get into a fight. He tried to run instead, but quick as a whip, the officer pulled out his stick and caught the backs of Jack’s knees. Jack stumbled, but didn't fall. His panic growing by the second, he tried to keep going, but a hand closed on his shoulder, and he received another blow to his knees.

Jack collapsed, and both police officers were standing over him, looking satisfied with themselves. 

“I don't know when they're gonna let us run all the coloreds out of this city,” one said critically. “They're putting good white folk out of business.”

“Never woulda caught this one if my brother hadn't been worried and asked me to keep watch. Past two months, someone's been breaking into stores and stealing shit.” The other kicked Jack hard in the ribs. “Want that we should stamp you out? Huh?” the officer asked, bringing his foot down on Jack’s face. Jack cried out, knowing his nose would be broken. 

“Shouldn't have gone taking what didn't belong to you, then,” the other officer said. He hefted his stick and swung it hard, hitting Jack’s upper back. 

The two officers amused themselves in this manner for nearly twenty minutes, and when they finally yanked him to his feet, Jack could not see for the blood in his eyes. He had long been terrified of police officers, and he knew that if he tried to run or resist any more they'd do far worse than kick him around a bit. Jack had known young nonwhite boys dead because of police officers. 

Jack was tossed into a cell with around ten other men. He didn't know how much time passed with him crumpled in the corner, trying hard to avoid the other prisoners, but when he looked up again sunlight was streaming through the window. 

It was Christmas. 

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled. 

They left him in the cell for hours, other men cycling in and out. It was almost dark again when they brought him out to take him to the courtroom.

Jack was shaking like a leaf as he was brought in front of the judge. He supposed they thought he was an adult, or didn't care and were trying him like one. Either way, they hadn't fed him, and there was no way of escaping, and Jack was more scared than he'd ever been in his life. 

“Accused of breaking and entering in seventeen stores and stealing thirty four dollars and twenty nine cents of merchandise,” the judge read. He looked at Jack. “Anything to say for yourself?”

Jack couldn't speak. 

“Very well,” the judge said. “You are sentenced to five years in the colored county jail. Bail will be set at fifty dollars. Next.”

“Wait!”

Jack had never forgotten that voice. He lunged out of his seat, panic making him stupid, fear bringing back memories of big hands around his neck. Jack tried to run, but he was restrained, and Snyder stepped forward, looking immensely satisfied. 

“Your Honor,” Snyder said, smiling. “This boy’s name is Francis Sullivan.”

Jack struggled harder, tears pricking his eyes. He couldn't go back. He couldn't.

“He escaped from the Refuge years ago. I ask of your Honor that you allow him to finish his sentence with me.”

“No!” Jack shouted. “No, no, please, your Honor, don't, I can't-” Tears were running down his face, stinging his cuts. 

The judge looked disgusted. “Fine, take him. Don't let him snivel on the desk, Jesus.”

Jack was yanked away despite his protests, Snyder’s gloating face branded into his mind. 

So he was trapped in the Refuge again. For almost a week, Jack was inconsolable. All the horrors of his childhood, it seemed, had been stored in this old building. Jack didn't sleep, couldn't for the nightmares and flashbacks that plagued him. 

One night, someone Jack had never seen before came up to his bed. 

“Jack?” he asked. 

Jack didn't lift his head. “What.”

“Uh, someone's here to see you,” the boy said. “Racetrack.”

Jack sat up. “What?”

The boy furrowed his brow. “Racetrack? Short, Asian, got a cigar stickin’ outta his mouth.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Jack was out of his bed and moving quickly towards the window. Sure enough, Race was clinging to the bars.

“Happy 1898!” he said cheerily. His face fell as he took in Jack’s face. “You look like hell.”

Jack disregarded him. “Race, Jesus Christ, you know those bars ain’t that strong-”

“Relax,” Race said dismissively. “It's only the second floor.”

“Only,” Jack repeated. 

“How long’s your sentence?” Race asked. 

Jack shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “Judge said five years, and then Snyder came in and said he wanted me to finish my sentence.”

“You been here before?” Race said, interest piqued. 

Jack pretended not to hear the question. “Race, could you do a favor?” he asked. “There's clothes and food hidden somewhere in the city. I needs you to get it and then give it to kids who need it.”

“Is that why you're here? They caught you stealin’?” Race looked worried. “Jack, you's lucky you ain't dead, look at your face. Did someone fix your nose?”

“Not that lucky,” Jack muttered. 

“What?”

“Nothin’. No one fixed my nose,” Jack said.

Race frowned. “There's a kid in there, Frankie, I think. Go ask him.”

“Yeah? What can he do?” Jack said, skeptical.

“You’s gonna be surprised,” Race said, grinning a little. 

“Yeah, well, I wanna be surprised by you handin’ out them clothes and food to the kids in Manhattan,” Jack answered, frowning. “They's hidden at Seventy-Fourth and Fifth.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Go see Frankie!” With that, Race dropped out of sight, leaving Jack standing at the window. He knew it was stupid, but he felt the loss of his friend all over again.

Jack missed Crutchie.

Days ticked by. Jack didn’t want to deal with his broken nose, not until he had confirmation that Race had done as he’d asked, but he gave in eventually. The pain in Jack’s nose grew enough that he finally sought out Frankie, who turned out to be a short black boy with a long face and a troop of boys surrounding him, like Spot so long ago.

“Hey, is you Frankie?” Jack asked hesitantly as he approached their dinner table.

Frankie looked up. “Yeah,” he said. “You needs help with your nose?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, a little taken aback. “How’d you-”

“It’s all crooked and nasty lookin’,” Frankie said, quirking his brow. “I figured you wasn’t comin’ for a massage.”

Jack didn’t speak for a moment. “Can you fix it?”

“Sure.” Frankie stood up, leaned over, and put his fingers on the bridge of Jack’s nose. What he did, Jack had no idea, but there was a crack, a flash of pain, and then it subsided to an ache that was more comfortable than it had been all week.

Jack touched his nose. It wasn’t quite as crooked anymore, but there was still a bump over the break.

“Don’t touch,” Frankie warned. “Just keep it from fallin’ outta place again, and you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, marveling at what had just happened. “Damn. Where’d you learn that?”

“My momma was a nurse,” Frankie said, grinning. “Titch asked me to watch out for kids, which is why I ain’t broke out yet.”

“You stayin’ in here on purpose?” Jack asked, equal parts intrigued and horrified. “Why?”

“Well, I didn’t get in here on purpose,” Frankie said. “But kids get hurt in here, real bad. Titch asked me to stay a few months, just til the end of winter. Winter always brings a buncha new kids. So I’ll break out in spring.”

“Huh.” Jack considered that. “Real loyal, ain’t you?"

Frankie shrugged and returned to his food. Jack left, dismissed.

Jack kept his eyes open after that. Beatings came just as regularly, the rat infestation was worse, and the food, accordingly, always showed signs of vermin. But Jack was sixteen now. He was as big as many of the guards, and he’d had years of practice of stealing food. There were little kids in the Refuge, some of them as young as six, all of whom were utterly defenseless.

Jack started in his own room. He began trapping the rats and tossing them out the window, trying to make the place a little more inhabitable. The younger kids in his room decided that they loved this new game, and every night after dinner, Jack’s room became a madhouse as giggling children ran around trying to find rats to toss out the window. This game brought Jack incredible popularity, and it spread through his wing.

One day, almost on impulse, Jack darted into the laundry room when nobody was looking. He took buckets of water and brought them up, plunking them down on the ground.

“What’s this?” a younger kid asked, sticking his finger into the water and trying to put in his mouth. Jack slapped the boy’s hand away.

“It’s laundry water,” Jack said. “Don’t eat it. We’s gonna clean this room!”

“Why?” the boy asked.

“Because,” Jack said. “It stinks, and there’s bugs, and rats, and it’s nasty. If you cleans it up, it becomes a nice place to live.”

“Yeah?” the boy said, with gathering interest.

“Yeah.”

Every boy in Jack’s room spent the evening tearing strips off of several different sheets, making sure not to make any one of them too short, and scrubbed the room as best as they could. Jack had no idea how effective it was, but he could see a real difference in the boys. It gave them some feeling of accomplishment, making their rooms better and cleaner through their own work. People were noticeably happier. 

But it was hard to call that a victory when the violence of the guards was still a real threat. Jack did his best to keep the younger kids from getting in the guards’ way, but they were young, and not all of them were as cautious as Jack had once been. 

One night, Jack and the boys in his room were catching rats and tossing them outside. One boy, hardly any younger than Jack himself, had caught a large rat by the tail. Just as he was straightening up to show off his grotesque catch, the door swung open. 

“Look what I got!” the boy yelled excitedly.

“Look what you got,” the guard said, and Jack saw the boy’s expression sink into fear and panic. The rat dropped to the floor and skittered away. 

“You playin’ with rats, eh?” the guard said, advancing on the smaller boy. 

The boy tried to stammer out an excuse. Jack, unable to watch, strode forward and planted himself between the guard and the boy. 

“Hey, uh-” Jack squinted at the guard’s name tag. “Smythe. You wanna back up?”

The guard didn't even respond, bringing up that infernal stick they all seemed to carry to try and hit Jack. Jack, adrenaline pounding through him, caught it. For a moment, he and the guard stared at each other, each holding tightly onto the stick.

Jack wrenched the stick out of the guard’s grip. “Don’t you come beatin’ on these kids, or I might come beatin’ on you,” he said, pointing at the guard with the stolen stick. The guard stared at him, openmouthed. “We ain't doin’ nothin’ but tryna survive in here.”

With that, Jack threw the stick down the hallway and prayed the guard wouldn't call his bluff. Thankfully, the guard backed out and let Jack slam the door shut.

Jack turned to look at the rest of the boys, his heart racing in his chest. “Man, that's the biggest lie I ever told,” he admitted to the shocked silence. “I can't beat up no one.”

“Thanks, Jack,” the boy said quietly. 

“You welcome,” Jack said. 

The silence held. 

“It's time for bed, I think,” Jack said, uncomfortable. “C’mon, boys. Lights out.”

They all shuffled to bed, whispering amongst themselves. Jack wondered if what he had just done was completely unprecedented. 

It was, apparently, and as Jack continued to defend the other boys over the next few weeks, it began to catch on. Boys all over the building stood up to the guards, and Jack felt sure that some balance had changed.  Jack had no idea how much time had passed when Brick, a young teenager so named because he had a head like rock, came to Jack’s bed after dinner. 

“Titch’s here to see you,” Brick said, eyes shining with curiosity. Jack sat up so fast his head banged against the top bunk.

“Titch?” he asked. “You sure?”

“Come look,” he said. 

Jack got up and went to the window. One of the bars had fallen off, so there was room for someone as slight as Titch to squeeze through and perch on the windowsill.

“Jack.” Titch smiled at him. “Lemme in.”

He did as Titch said, throwing the window open and helping Titch inside. 

“What-” Jack began, bewildered, but Titch cut him off.

“Let's sit.” Titch sat down on a bed in the corner, shooing away the kids sitting there. “Hey, give us some privacy, yeah?”

Jack sat next to Titch, head spinning. He stayed quiet, waiting for Titch to speak. 

“I’m leavin’ for Texas,” Titch said plainly. “I’m near seventeen, and I got family in Dallas. Family and a job. So I ain’t gonna stay in a place that got nothin’ to offer.”

Jack nodded, trying to push down his jealousy. 

“I been hearin’ things about you, Jack,” Titch continued. “Apparently, you been like a new heart in this place. And a few weeks ago, I caught Race sneaking round carrying what musta been three bucks’ worth of stuff. Race don’t have two pennies to rub together. You know what he told me?” Titch didn't wait for a response. “For months, you was giving that stuff out to kids in Manhattan.”

“No ‘fense, or nothin’,” Jack said when Titch didn't continue. “What you want from me, Titch?”

“Just keep on doing what you been doing,” Titch said, shrugging. “I’m gonna leave, and you're gonna fit right into where I was. They’ll take you easy.”

“Titch, I don't think I should do that,” Jack said hesitantly. “It's- there's stuff about me you don't know.”

“I talked to Spot about you,” Titch said mildly. Fear rose in Jack’s throat, but before he could bolt, Titch kept talking. “He ain't said nothin’ but that you helped hundreds of kids when you was his second.”

Jack was frozen to his seat. Did that mean Spot wasn’t going to tell anyone? Then he reasoned that Race went to Brooklyn all the time, and hadn't said anything or acted any different. Maybe, on that front, he was safe.

“So, what do you say?” Titch asked.

“Even if I said yeah,” Jack said, frowning. “I is stuck in here.”

Titch nodded slowly. “Well.” He stood up. “You’re real resourceful, yeah? Tomorrow, Teddy Roosevelt is comin’ to visit the Refuge. He’s runnin’ for governor. Important part, though, is that he’s leavin’ in a carriage.” Titch gave him the ghost of a grin. “See you, Jack.”

Jack watched Titch slide in the narrow space between the bars on the window like a cat and disappear into the dark. Brick came up to him as he was closing the window.

“What’d he want?” Brick asked curiously.

“Too much,” Jack answered tersely. Brick looked confused, and Jack patted his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jack couldn’t sleep that night, completely unsure of what to do. But sure enough, the next morning at breakfast, a carriage rolled up to the Refuge. Kids crowded to the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage. 

Jack trusted his own instincts. He acted on impulse.

He dropped his spoon and filtered through the crowd, slipping out the door of the dining room. The hall was empty of people, everyone at the front door greeting Teddy Roosevelt. Jack ducked into a closet, and not a moment too soon. The group of adults rounded the corner and passed him. Jack was close enough to hear the clicking of a camera.

After that, it was almost too easy. Jack crept out of the closet and then to the front door. It was as simple as opening and closing the door quietly.

The day was bright and sunny, a little cold. Jack darted across the courtyard and climbed to the roof of the carriage, flattening himself to the top.

Jack lay there for hours with the sun at his back, convinced the entire time that Snyder would come out and drag him back. But soon enough, Jack felt the carriage shake slightly. A door opened and slammed shut. Horses’ hooves began clopping against the cobblestones, and Jack saw the Refuge grow smaller behind him.

They left the gates.

Jack popped up, sure he was safe now. He waved cheerfully at the building as the carriage rolled farther away, and distantly, he saw someone throw the door open. Jack laughed, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He hadn’t been outside in months.

Jack heard something clattering and looked down to see the door opening. A camera poked out, and Jack flashed a grin as it went off. 

“Sullivan!” Jack heard the furious shout and looked up to see guards from the Refuge in hot pursuit. That was his signal, he supposed. Jack knocked on the roof of the carriage, burying his fear deep under the bravado he’d learned to cultivate.

“Thanks for the ride!” Jack yelled, jumping off the carriage. He hit the ground on his shoulder and leapt up, running as fast as he could. He wound through the streets, slowing as he became sure he’d lost them. The city had never looked so good.

Jack didn’t go straight back to the lodging house, knowing what would be waiting for him when he went back. But night fell soon enough, and Jack made his way back to the lodging house. He walked inside and was immediately assaulted by Race.

“Jack!” Race shouted excitedly. “Jack’s back!”

“Get off, Race,” Jack said, laughing despite himself. “Yeah, I’s back. You got six cents, though? I don’t got rent.”

“Nah, struck out today at Sheepshead,” Race said, frowning. “Crutchie had a good day today though, ask him.”

“Crutchie.” Jack pushed Race away. “Where is he? Crutchie!”

Crutchie appeared from the rows of beds, his face brightening at the sight of Jack.

“Crutchie!” Jack bounded over to him and hugged him tightly.

“Hey, Jack,” Crutchie wheezed, putting one arm around Jack. “Missed you too, pal.”

“Loan me six cents?” Jack asked.

Crutchie shoved Jack away, laughing. “Yeah, ‘course,” he said. “Glad you’s back, Jackie.”

The next day, Mush loaned him a dime so that he could go sell papers with the other newsies. Jack received his stack of twenty papers and was surprised find his own face grinning up at him.

“Jack, is this you?” Mush asked incredulously. “What-”

“I, uh-” Jack was interrupted by Race’s shriek of laughter.

“Jack, you broke outta the Refuge on  _ Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage?” _ Race said gleefully. “Holy shit, Jack, you’s famous!”

“I ain’t famous, you dumbass,” Jack said, unable to keep himself from smiling. “I just-”

“You’s famous for sure,” Crutchie said, skimming the article. “Listen to this.  _ Yesterday, Theodore Roosevelt visited the Refuge for Underage Boys. As he was leaving, a colored hoodlum- _ ” (“That’s you, Jackie!” Race interjected) “- _ climbed to the top of his carriage and escaped for good. There was no comment from Mister Snyder.” _ Crutchie lowered the paper, a huge grin on his face. “You’s famous!”

“Yeah, as an escaped colored hoodlum,” Jack said, laughing despite himself. Race dissolved into laughter again.

“This is a good picture,” Crutchie declared. “You got a nice smile.”

“I’s sure the girls will be linin’ up,” Jack said.

Race never dropped the time Jack escaped the Refuge on the back of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage. None of the Manhattan kids ever did. In almost every lodging house in Manhattan, Jack found a clipping of the article pinned to the wall. Months later, Crutchie informed him that he wasn’t famous, he was a veritable legend.

For a legend, Jack found it easy to slip into place as if he’d been there for years. As Titch had promised, it was much easier to fit in as king than he’d thought. He continued his system of giving out food and clothing to kids who couldn’t afford it, but in a way that was a little safer than breaking into stores every other night. He still stole, but he also recruited several people around Manhattan to help him, and he used the profits from his considerable talent for selling papers to buy extra food and clothing rather than saving for a ticket he knew he’d never buy.

As the weather grew warmer, the boys began to spend more and more time on the roof. Crutchie in particular liked to lie around on the roof, despite the fact that he was consistently terrible at getting up the ladder by himself.

One night, late in the spring, Jack couldn’t sleep. It was a bad night, with bad dreams chasing him whenever he closed his eyes. He felt the bed shake, and he hung his head over the side to see Crutchie tossing and turning in his bed.

“Hey, Crutch,” Jack whispered.

Crutchie turned over to face Jack. “Hey, Jack,” he whispered back.

“Can’t sleep?”

Crutchie shrugged.

“Me neither.” Jack thought for a moment. “Come on.”

Jack swung down from his bunk, grabbing his pillow and blanket with him. He pulled Crutchie up out of bed and helped him outside.

“What’s this about, Jackie?” Crutchie asked curiously. He wasn’t resistant or suspicious, all open and gentle and soft as Jack helped him up to the roof.

“I don’t like sleepin’ inside,” Jack explained. “And it’s a nice night. We could have a picnic. Without food.”

“Then we’s just sleepin’ outside like idiots,” Crutchie said.

“No,” Jack said adamantly. They lay down together, tucked under the blanket and staring up at the stars. “We’s sleepin’ under the stars! Like cowboys.”

Crutchie snorted, his head resting under Jack’s chin. “We ain’t cowboys. We’s a couple of broke kids in the city.”

“Pretend, Crutchie,” Jack said, his voice long suffering. Crutchie laughed.

“Okay, we’s cowboys,” he said.

“Yeah. Sleepin’ out under the stars in the desert,” Jack said a little dreamily. “In New Mexico.”

“New Mexico, huh?”

“Yeah.” Jack fidgeted a little, pulling Crutchie closer. “Santa Fe’s the most beautiful place in the world, you know that?”

“Nah. How d’you know?” Crutchie asked.

“I used to be goin’ steady w someone from there,” Jack said after a long moment. “I’d hear long stories about it. That’s where I’s gonna live someday?”

“How you gonna get there?” Crutchie asked. “It’s gotta take twenty dollars, at least.”

“More,” Jack admitted. “But you watch, Crutchie. I’ll get there.”

“What about everyone here?” Crutchie said. “You changed things round here, I hopes you knows that. Titch only just ran away, too.” Crutchie sounded odd. “We’d miss you.”

Jack was quiet. Of course, he’d made the decision to stay months ago. He’d only meant to share with Crutchie something that made him happy.

“Well, ‘course I got stuff to do here,” Jack said. “And I got things I needs to spend money on here. But, you know, sometimes it’s nice to think about where I belong.”

“You belong right here by me,” Crutchie said firmly.

“Then you can belong with me in Santa Fe,” Jack blurted out. Crutchie was silent, and Jack immediately regretted his words.

“Yeah,” Crutchie breathed. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

“S’free, there,” Jack said, encouraged. “You sees all the stars, every night. Every night’s like livin’ in a penthouse.”

Crutchie huffed out a laugh. “This your penthouse?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied as Crutchie laughed at him. “My penthouse in the sky, just for you’n me.”

“Penthouse in the sky, huh.” Crutchie didn’t speak for a moment. “You could be free right here, you know, Jack.”

“Don’t say that,” Jack said lightly. “If my story don’t got a happy ending, I’ll never get to the end.”

To become a hero, a person must break. They are not always put back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the end! it's only four chapters, but if i'm totally honest, i poured my whole ass heart and soul into this and i'm really proud of how it turned out. i appreciate it if you read it, and thanks for all the feedback!! i love you all!!

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of a lot of work and i'm really proud of it tbh!!! leave a comment or kudos if u liked it!! u can also find me @ francissulivan on tumblr. thanks for reading!!!


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